The Unloved
by Random Phantom
Summary: Lewis is faced with a killer who seems to leave no forensic traces, and the case has deep, personal implications for him when it emerges who the killers "victims" really are...
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N:** I have been away from the Morse & Lewis forums for too longs, engaging in a slightly illicit affair with the Sherlock Holmes genre... however, I've been a bit under the weather recently, which was a good excuse to re-watch the whole Lewis series on DVD. That, of course, sparked off a ramble through some half-finished stories on my computer, and I found this. _

_It was originally meant to be a character study on my OC, Hogan, who seems to have proven popular with a couple of you! However, she refuses to come to the forefront in this one! I began developing a story about how forensics alone couldn't solve a crime, indulging in my interest in criminal psychology. The two merged, Hogan took a step backwards, and Lewis and Hathaway got quite a challenging case to deal with. _

_By way of warning... this one is a little bit heavy on the "owies" for all involved..._

_

* * *

_

It was mid-afternoon. Sunlight filtered through the window, lending a light, hazy atmosphere to the interior of the study. The room was warm, decorated in muted tones; and the walls that were not covered with books and academic accoutrements were panelled in wood that was polished to a deep, antique lacquer. A large globe gathered dust in one corner, and a sprawling desk dominated the end of the room nearest to the windows. In the middle of the room, a circle of armchairs gathered around a large, low coffee table. The room's owner and occupier shuffled towards her chair, aided by her cane, pausing only to place a packet of chocolate digestives on the table.

"Well, then," Professor Woodman said, as she sat down slowly and carefully, settling into her armchair, eying the assembled students, "that's the important part sorted out, I think. Now, let's get started."

There were eight students, sitting in comfortable armchairs arranged in a circle, which included the professor's chair. Woodman rarely left her office, and as such all tutorials took place there. The format was one based around discussion, and all participants had equal footing. Professor Woodman's seminars were legendary on the campus, and each of the students would testify to the quality of discussion. That, and the tea and biscuits that were perpetually on offer were always appreciated, by staff and students alike. Woodman only dealt with small groups, so the classes were always in high demand and fully booked.

The professor reached around to the back of her chair, and pulled a dark blue fleece blanket from the backrest, draping it over her legs. None of the students were at all surprised by this informality – Woodman wouldn't have batted an eyelid if they had turned up in their pyjamas and a dressing gown.

"It's good to see you all," she began, in an accent only lightly touched by her north-eastern roots, "welcome to the first in a series of six sessions on criminal psychology, which I hope you will find interesting."

Woodman tapped her cane on the floor. She was by no means old – most students would have guessed late forties, and been correct – but a car accident several years previously had left her physically weak, and she used a black cane topped with silver to aid her mobility, as well as to emphasise important points in her lectures.

"I hope you've all done your pre-reading," she commented, and was rewarded by a round of nods, some more confidant than others, "good. Well, then… as you know, Criminological psychology is the application of psychological principles to the actions of criminals. The study of the psychology behind criminal actions not only aids in the capture of criminals, but in the prevention of crime and the rehabilitation of offenders."

Some of the students were avidly scribbling notes as she spoke; others were simply content to listen.

"Some of you may have come into this session under the misapprehension that criminal psychology is some sort of cure-all pill that can solve all of the vagaries of crime, in particular in instances of murder, and the serial killer," Woodman continued, glancing at each of her students in turn, "I would urge all of you to dismiss such ridiculous notions. Empty your minds of any kind of TV nonsense and popular paperback poppycock you may assume to be correct. You may be thinking that criminal profiling can be used to see how the perpetrator thinks or reacts, how they feel, what their motivation is, and what they will do next. Things are not so easy in real life…"

"Then, if I may ask, Professor – what is the purpose of profiling, if not to anticipate a criminal's next move?"

Woodman paused, glancing across at the student who had spoken. She never chastised an interruption, and made it clear that she considered that there was no such thing as a stupid question.

"Well, Melissa, profiling can indeed be a useful tool," she replied, "However, you must consider it in conjunction with the results of investigative procedures and the evidence gathered at the scenes of the crime. It is merely part of the picture – a criminal profiler will often assist the police, but they will not single-handedly solve the crime."

"But profiling is still important," one of the young men prompted her.

"Oh, yes, of course," Woodman nodded, pausing to take a sip of her tea, "For example, in the absence of any firm physical evidence – because with the popularity of true crime drama and the strive for realism in these crime-based TV shows everyone seems so fond of – criminals are becoming ever more aware of forensic procedure and ways of avoiding detection. In cases where the criminal is particularly clever, profiling might help to open up new leads of investigation. It is a tool that can be used in apprehending the offender. Now, back to your pre-reading… Who can tell me, on the subject of causative matters of criminal behaviour, what Julie Harrower had to say on the subject?"

There was a brief moment of silence, as several of the students surreptitiously glanced back at their notes. Eventually, one of them spoke up, making no pretence at reciting the passage from memory, as she read from her text book.

"She stated that we all have a genetic inheritance or genetic potential…to criminal behaviour, that is… but in order for that potential to be released there have to be some environmental triggers. She said that it also seems clear that the roots of antisocial behaviour lie in early childhood and that certain events in childhood can increase an individual's psychological vulnerability. These would include: insecure attachment; a weak sense of self; a dysfunctional family; coercive or indifferent parenting; physical, sexual or emotional abuse or neglect; the death of a parent; low family income; an acrimonious separation or divorce and low academic achievement…"

"But these are not the be all and end all," Woodman interrupted, "many rich, intelligent or otherwise apparently well-balanced people may suddenly commit a crime. But remember; there is always a motivation, even though this may not be apparently obvious. Some killers, for example, may choose their victims entirely randomly, and will kill simply for the love of killing."

Woodman took another sip of her tea, as she allowed the students to catch up with their note-taking. She smiled slightly to herself; "Yes. There are those that kill simply for the love of it. Those are the ones that you have to be really afraid of. Now… I'd like to hear your opinions of the four types of serial killer identified by Holmes and DeBurger…"

* * *

It was mid-afternoon, but with the conclusion of a court case, three shifts had ended early at the mutual agreement of the two senior offices involved. As such, Sergeant James Hathaway found that, instead of going home to practice guitar for a gig at the weekend, he was being dragged to the pub. As the dragging was being done by two very senior Inspectors, one of whom owed him a pint, he did not feel the need to protest two much.

"I can't believe they let the bastard out on a suspended sentence," Hogan growled, as they walked from the Court towards the nearest pub; "I'm sorry, Robbie – plea-bargain or no, Monkford should have been left to rot in a cell somewhere."

"He's not worth the bother," Lewis replied, tiredly, "let's forget about it, eh? I'll get a round in – what are you having?"

They placed their orders, and Lewis went to the bar while Hogan and Hathaway found a table in a secluded corner. Simon Monkford, the petty criminal and hit-and-run driver responsible for the death of Valerie Lewis, had pleaded guilty to manslaughter. The evidence that he had given in relation to a number of other offences had led to several arrests of other, more violent offenders, and in taking into account Monkford's apparent remorse, the Court had seen fit to release him on a suspended sentence. Were he to commit any further offence within the next twelve months, he faced eight years in jail.

"He's still a bastard," Hogan muttered, to Hathaway, "you never met Val, did you? Marvellous lady… she made one hell of a fruit cake."

"Pardon?" Hathaway blinked, wondering if this was some sort of euphemism.

"Fruit cake, Hathaway – she baked lovely fruit cakes. I like fruit cake."

"You are a fruit cake, sir," Hathaway muttered, under his breath.

Hogan merely raised an eyebrow at him, as Lewis returned with three pints which he set down on the table, before taking a seat. He lifted his glass in a toast.

"Cheers," he said, making an effort to sound light-hearted.

"Cheers," Hathaway agreed.

Hathaway took a mouthful of beer, and groaned aloud when Lewis and Hogan drained half of their glasses in one. It was clearly going to be a heavy night.

"Keep up, lad," Lewis smiled at him, and Hathaway just pulled a face.

Their conversation remained fairly light, each of them studiously avoiding the elephant in the room, until Hogan decided to face it down.

"Sorry, Robbie, but I've got to say it – Val deserved better than that rat-bastard. He should've been taken out and shot."

Hathaway froze, remembering how Lewis hated to talk about his wife. However, they had both been forced to confront that particular aspect of the Inspector's past over the last few days, and Lewis simply sighed in response.

"Aye, she did," he agreed, "but Monkford… he's not even worth the effort of hating, really."

"Agreed," Hathaway nodded in agreement, "fruit cake aside, that is."

"She told you about the fruit cake?" Lewis raised his eyebrows and nodded his head towards Hogan.

"It was good fruit cake!" she replied, in mock-defensiveness.

"It was bloody good fruit cake…" Lewis smiled, a little sadly, "Hathaway, I never said… thanks. For everything… and I'm sorry about my, ah… bad temper."

"Don't mention it, sir," Hathaway replied, hiding a slightly embarrassed flush by taking a mouthful of beer, "unless it's going in my annual review, in which case you may sing my praises to your heart's content."

"I'll put in a good word for you, James," Hogan offered, waving an empty pint glass at him, "you never miss the obvious, for one thing…"

"Like the fact that your glass is empty, sir?" Hathaway noted, dryly.

"He's a bright lad, this one, Robbie," Hogan grinned, as Hathaway collected the empty glasses, and went to get another round in. He was glad he'd remembered to pick up some cash before going to the pub – he had a feeling that he was going to be getting a taxi home tonight.

* * *

"But do you really think it's as simple as that?" Professor Woodman shifted slightly in her chair, as the afternoon wore on, cupping her chin in her hand as she leaned forward on one of the armrests, "that serial killers fall into the category of visionary, mission-orientated, hedonistic or controlling?"

"Surely to label killers in such a way is to give them a greater status in the minds of normal people?" one of the young women, Annabelle, spoke up, a slight note of contempt in her voice, "I mean, surely by calling a serial killer a visionary or a missionary serves only to inflate his ego, make him think even greater of himself, and fuel his twisted self-perceptions?"

Woodman bit back a sharp comment; Annabelle was one of the few students who tried her patience – she was a bright enough girl, or else she wouldn't have come to Oxford. However, she tended to think of herself as being smarter than everyone else, including the tutors, and she was not afraid to show it. Woodman leaned back in the chair.

"How does the serial killer know that you have categorised them as such?" Woodman asked, in a level tone, "such killers rarely read criminal psychology books. If they even consider themselves to be criminals, then they already know how they think. They know that they have been given a vision, or that a voice is telling them what to do, or that they are on a mission to rid the world of certain people. Your premise is flawed – you refer to normal people, well, what is 'normal'? Everyone has their own neurosis, phobia, flaw or habit which to them is perfectly normal. You choice of gender – "his", "him", "himself" – I trust you use that in the legal sense of meaning both genders? I would dislike operating under the impression that you do not know that there are female serial killers… let's see… who can name for me five famous female serial killers?"

"Isn't the term "female serial killer" controversial because women don't kill for the same reasons as men?" one of the men, Andrew, asked, quickly; "Male serial killers are usually defined by sexual motivation and their desire for power over victims. These are characteristics that murderesses don't usually display. Female serial killers kill for other reasons, such as for money."

"Good comment, but a discussion for another day," Woodman smiled, "come on – you can name our first 'serial murderess' for me… a famous historical example, please."

"Um… the Countess Erzebet Bathory? She killed an estimated 80 to 600 plus people."

"Which is a wide margin for error," Woodman quipped, "Good. Four more, anyone?"

"Mary Cotton, Belle Gunness, Rosemary West and Myra Hindley," Annabelle supplied, quickly, giving a slightly smug look to the other students.

"Thank you," Woodman nodded, "now, to my earlier question – how else can you categorise a serial killer beyond those four types previously mentioned?"

"Ressler, Burgess and Douglas identified two further models of behaviour," Liam, one of the quieter students, finally spoke up, "the organised and disorganised."

"Excellent," Woodman said, shifting uncomfortably in her chair, her legs aching, "Zoë – tell use about organised serial killers."

"Uh…" Zoë glanced around quickly, nervously swallowed, and then spoke; "the, uh, the organised killer is considered to be, uh, socially competent, intelligent , a planner, generally targets strangers, someone who probably uses restraints, is more likely to, uh, to have sex with their victims and might use a vehicle. Typical characteristics would include following the reports about their crime in the media, planning the, uh, the killing, hiding the, uh, the… body, they are, um, careful not to leave evidence, and, uh, they may return to the crime scene."

"Yes. Andrew – while you're making us all another cup of tea, tell us about disorganised serial killers."

Andrew flashed a quick smile, filling the kettle from a nearby large jug of water, and collecting the cups. He spoke as he worked, with much more confidence than Zoë.

"The disorganised killer is often socially immature. He – or she – is a person who may know his victims and he kills them spontaneously. The disorganised killer is often sexually inhibited, may have had a horrible childhood, lives alone, and he leaves a messy crime scene with plenty of evidence. However, he shows no interest in the media. Victims, if hidden at all, might be found easily, in shallow graves for example. Some disorganised serial killers will even keep the bodies in their house, under floorboards or in cupboards, basements or lofts."

"What else can be an issue for serial killers?" Woodman asked, "Annabelle – would you mind fetching my pills from my desk? Thank you."

"Um…" Ayesha held her hand up, not for permission to speak, but as an unconscious indicator that she was thinking, "mobility?"

"Yes," Woodman smiled, and patted her crippled leg, "and not in the way that I am immobile, but…?"

"Travelling serial killers move around to find their victims, while local killers kill in their own region," Ayesha explained, "Hickey, in 'Serial Killers and Their Victims', commented that travelling serial killers are often harder to track in the United States due to the separation of police jurisdictions and the lack of pattern recognition."

"Something that could just as easily happen in this country," Woodman commented, accepting a fresh cup of tea from Andrew, "thank you. Remember, not every murder makes the national news headlines…"

* * *

As Hathaway had expected, they were the last ones out of the bar at closing time. Hogan bid them goodnight and staggered off in the direction of the station, proclaiming that she was going to spend the night in her car because she couldn't remember where she lived. Hathaway had tried to point out that her address was printed on her driving licence, but Hogan had merely given him a hug, told him he was wonderful, and wandered off, happily smoking a cigarette she had taken from his pocket.

Hathaway lit up himself, and inhaled deeply. Normally, he tried not to smoke around Lewis, who had made his disapproval of the habit quite obvious, but alcohol had a disturbing tendency to knock down any usual mild inhibitions.

"You alright for a taxi home, sir?" he said, trying not to slur.

"Fine, thanks," Lewis gave him a tired, amused smile, and the Sergeant was mildly irritated to note that his boss did not appear to be anywhere near as drunk as Hathaway felt.

Hathaway had always considered himself to be a fairly hardened drinker – after all, he had been a student – but Hogan and Lewis had quickly demolished this notion, pointing out that they used to drink with some of the best, and he was damn well going to learn to keep up. He gave an exaggerated groan; "I'm going to have to detox for a week after this…"

"Bollocks," Lewis said, happily, and flung an arm across Hathaway's shoulders, "Come on, James... The taxi rank is over here…"

After making sure Hathaway got into the first taxi, Lewis took the next one that came along, and gave his home address. The driver drove altogether too fast, swerving around corners, until Lewis wordlessly took his badge from his pocket and held it up in line with the rear-view mirror with a loud sigh.

The driver's eyes widened slightly, and hit the brakes so hard Lewis would have been thrown from his seat had he not had the foresight to fasten his seat belt. Muttering apologies, the driver made some excuse about needing to get as many fares into the night as possible, wife and kids, know what I'm saying, mate? Lewis gave a polite, disinterested nod, and the rest of the journey passed by smoothly, before the taxi driver dropped him off at the end of his road.

Lewis paid him quickly, getting out of the car. It sped off into the night, and Lewis sighed with relief. Grateful to be out of the cab, he walked down to his house, and took his keys from his pocket. Unlocking the front door, he stepped inside, closed the door behind him, and, without bothering to turn the light on, he headed for the kitchen. However, he froze when something crunched under his shoe; something made of glass. Reaching out blindly, he found the living room light-switch and flicked it on. The room flooded with light and Lewis groaned aloud.

"Oh, no…"

The entire room seemed to have been turned upside down; several of his drinking glasses had been knocked off the worktop, and it was one of these that he had stood on. Paperwork was strewn everywhere, and the side window was clearly broken, letting a cold breeze into the room.

"I don't bloody believe it," he muttered to himself, glancing around.

Taking a step forward, Lewis raised his hands to his head, surveying the devastation of the break-in, wondering what to do first. He did not own anything particularly valuable, but he could not tell if anything had been taken. He was trying to decide if it was worth reporting the matter to his uniformed colleagues, when a movement behind him from the kitchen made him half-turn in surprise.

However, he was not prepared for the heavy blow that came from behind. Agony exploded across the back of his head, and he pitched to his knees with a bark of pain. A second blow completely floored him, and a couple of kicks to his face, ribs and stomach had him completely helpless, curled up and gasping on the floor. He reached out, looking for something, anything to use as a weapon, but a booted foot stamped down heavily on his fingers, and Lewis cried out as he felt a bone snap.

Above him, a gruff voice cursed colourfully, and the last thing Lewis was aware of was invasive hands searching through his pockets, before he completely lost consciousness.

* * *

_**A/N: **A long first chapter and a cliff-hanger to whet your appetites... I hope you are hungry for more!_


	2. Chapter 2

The first thing that Lewis was aware of was the deep, throbbing pain in his head. He managed a low groan. His whole body felt wracked with pain. He tried to move his head, but that sent a stab of agony through his neck and skull, almost making him pass out again.

His left hand was burning horribly, so, moving just his right hand slowly, he managed to curl and uncurl his fingers, trying to force himself to wake up and remember what had happened. He was, he realised, lying on the carpeted floor of his living room. He remembered being at the pub, but he didn't recall having drunk enough to cause him to pass out like this…

He became aware of the pain again, and wondered if he had lost consciousness for a while. He managed to roll onto his front, and moved one hand shakily to the back of his head. He flinched and hissed when his fingers encountered a raw, bloody lump, and came away tacky with his own blood. He could feel a deep, searing agony in his right-hand side; it felt like damage to his ribs. He was also having problems with his eyesight, but that could easily have been due to the concussion.

He tried to force himself to his knees, but that made his vision waver even more, as nausea washed over him. Breathing deeply to quell the sensation, he saw his mobile phone lying on the floor, not too far away…

It took only a few minutes for Lewis to drag himself over to the phone, but it felt like hours. With one shaking hand, he reached out, slid the phone open, and dialled the emergency switchboard number.

"This is Inspector Lewis," he rasped, pulling the phone closer to him so that the operator might hear him, as he quoted his badge number, "my flat… get a response car to my flat…"

Whatever the operator's response was, Lewis didn't hear it, as the pain redoubled, and, with a groan, he surrendered to unconsciousness.

* * *

Hathaway was jolted out of a deep sleep by the ringing of his phone. He groaned at it wordlessly, wondering, not for the first time, why he always kept it switched on, and why he charged it overnight on his bedside table. His head was already aching with a mild hangover, and there was a thick, gluey taste in his mouth. A quick glance at the clock told him it had only been an hour and a half since he had made it home from the pub. He snatched up the insistent phone, took a deep breath, and answered it with a croaked; "Hathaway."

He listened, and then sat bolt upright in bed; hangover forgotten in an instant, "What…? Really? Yes, of course, ma'am – I'll be there in ten minutes."

Flinging on some jeans and a sweater, he dashed out of his flat, snatching up his keys, glad that he had been given a lift to work that morning so his car was outside his house. Hathaway leapt into it and gunned the engine, not giving a thought to whether he was sober enough yet to be driving.

By stretching some of the speed limits slightly, he made it to Lewis's home in less than the promised ten minutes. There was a patrol car outside, with the lights on, and an ambulance parked up on the drive. Hathaway parked haphazardly, and leapt out of the car.

"Jim! Over here…"

Hathaway turned, and saw Lewis sitting on the tail-gate of the ambulance. There was a red fleece blanket draped over his shoulders against the chill of the night, and a paramedic was tending to a wound on the back of his head. The Inspector also had a livid red mark around his right eye that promised to be a fantastic bruise come morning.

"You really need to get this seen to properly," the medic was saying.

"Just patch it up and give me the disclaimer to sign, will you?" Lewis replied, wincing as the man pressed a piece of gauze to the back of his head.

"Hello again, sir," Hathaway called, as he approached, "I didn't think you were that drunk… did you fall over the doorstep?"

"Very funny," Lewis replied, jerking his right hand towards the open front door, "You can talk – you're probably still over the limit. I've been burgled."

"Shit," Hathaway said, matter-of-factly, "did they take anything?"

"My pride," Lewis snorted, and then flinched in pain, a hand going to his side instinctively, "Ah, I've no idea if anything's missing – they've made a hell of a mess. It's going to take me a few days to sort it all out – I think I interrupted them before they finished."

He indicated his head, and Hathaway winced in sympathy as the paramedic removed a piece of blood-soaked gauze and applied a fresh one. It looked like the Inspector had taken a bit of a beating in addition to the knock on the head.

"If I can't get the bleeding to stop in the next few minutes, we'll have to take you to hospital for stitches," he said, warningly.

Lewis ignored him, focussing instead on Hathaway; "Before you ask, I didn't see anything – he hit me from behind."

"I'd already worked that one out, sir," Hathaway responded, dryly, "just bad bloody luck, this, sir. How are you feeling?"

"Fine," Lewis replied, shortly, "do me a favour, will you? Get in there and keep an eye on things?"

"Of course… would you like me to come and pick you up from the hospital?"

"No need – I'm not going," Lewis told him, confidently, "I'll be in shortly. Oh, and Jim…?"

"Sir?"

"Thanks for coming out."

Hathaway smirked, unable to resist telling his boss; "Chief Superintendent Innocent rang me. She said that if she had to be woken up in the early hours because you probably left a window open, she saw no reason why I should be allowed to sleep in either."

"Charming," Lewis sighed, winced again, and glanced across at the house. Hathaway took pity on him.

"I'll go and see what's happening," he promised, "I'll be back soon."

* * *

Lewis eventually extricated himself from the fussy paramedic, and sent the ambulance on its way. Seeing a few curtains twitching in the street, he got the uniform in the patrol car to turn off the flashing lights, before he staggered inside the house. He paused just inside the hall, leaning against the wall as his head spun in a sickening surge. The paramedic had patched him up as best as could be without stitches, but the bandage already felt wet on the back of his head. He knew it was a deep wound with a concussion to boot, but he also had a feeling he had a couple of cracked ribs, and the middle finger of his left hand felt as if it might be broken. Furthermore, his right eye was already swelling shut from the kicking the bastard had given him while he was down…

"Sir," Hathaway's voice cut into his thoughts, causing him to look up with a slight wince, "Scene of Crimes are on their way over. They're asking if you've touched anything."

"It's my home – I've touched bloody everything," Lewis told him, leaning heavily on the wall, "Ah…sorry. When I came in, I touched the door, the light, and the kitchen worktop."

"And the floor."

"Sorry?"

"I assume that's your blood on the carpet, sir."

"Oh, aye," Lewis closed his eyes, briefly, and pushed himself off the wall, "yes. Um… I reported it on my mobile, and, um…"

The steadying hand on his elbow that prevented him from falling sideways belonged to Hathaway, who guided him back outside; "Come on, sir. I've got a very comfortable settee I can sleep on, and there's ice in the freezer for that black eye – you can stay at my place tonight."

Lewis tried to protest, but Hathaway was already leading him to the car. Lewis sighed, climbed awkwardly into the passenger seat, and leaned back tiredly, head spinning, aching all over. Hathaway got into the driver's seat and glanced across as his boss. There was dried blood on the collar of his shirt, and Hathaway could see more of it seeping through the bandage.

"You should have gone to the hospital."

"I hate hospitals."

Hathaway sighed, and then glanced back at the house. The least he could do was grab his boss a clean shirt to wear.

"I'll be back in a minute, sir," Hathaway disappeared, and returned minutes later with a hastily-packed overnight bag. Lewis was already struggling to stay awake in the passenger seat. Hathaway waved to the arriving forensics officers, and, making an effort to drive as smoothly as possible, started the car and drove off into the night.

* * *

The next morning, Lewis awoke slowly. For a long time, he did not move; his head was throbbing painfully, as was his bruised face, hand and damaged ribs. Very carefully, he raised his right hand to his forehead – sure enough, there was a bandage wrapped around his head, holding a thick pad of gauze in pace at the base of his skull. His right eye was swollen virtually shut, and his exploring fingers found a hot, swollen bruise that made him hiss with pain when he probed it gently.

Looking around slowly, Lewis realised he had no idea where he was. However, the bed was comfortable, and he was propped up on a number of very soft pillows, wrapped in a warm blanket. It was clearly not his bedroom, or a hospital – by process of elimination, he realised that this must be Hathaway's flat. Reluctantly, he threw off the blanket, and carefully eased himself out of bed. He recognised his own overnight bag by the door, but ignored it in favour of the smell of coffee that was wafting into the bedroom.

Still wearing his suit trousers and shirt from the previous evening, he stood slowly, waiting in vain for the dizziness to subside. Opening the door slowly, he leaned against the door-frame to steady himself as his head whirled. Suddenly, there was a strong hand at his elbow, guiding him to sit in an armchair, and as his vision cleared, Lewis finally managed to blink Hathaway into focus as the younger man pressed a mug of hot, black coffee into his hands, sitting down on the coffee table opposite to Lewis, staring at him with a wide-eyed, worried expression. He gasped in pain when he tried to wrap his left hand around the mug, and settled for holding it one-handed as his left hand throbbed mercilessly.

"Morning sir," Hathaway greeted him, giving him an assessing look, "How are you feeling?"

"Woozy," Lewis admitted, taking a careful sip of the coffee and leaning back on the sofa with exaggerated care, "What happened last night?"

"Ah, well, sir," a sparkle of mischief crept into Hathaway's blue-eyed gaze, "We were in the public house, you see, and a rogue of disreputable intent made a move on a fair maiden of our acquaintance, a delicate flower by the name of Inspector Hogan…"

Lewis, in spite of himself, laughed, and immediately regretted it as pain lanced though his head and right-side ribs. He gasped, blinking quickly, as his vision swam slightly.

"Sorry," Hathaway mumbled, guiltily, "do you remember much, sir?"

Lewis was about to shake his head, and thought better of it. "No," he replied, instead, with a heavy sigh, "I remember walking in, and seeing the mess, and then… well, nothing, really. I vaguely remember calling for help… the ambulance… no idea how I got here, though. What time is it?"

"Just after seven," Hathaway responded, flicking a glance at his watch, "I wasn't expecting you to wake up so soon. You're welcome to spend the day here while forensics go over your house…"

"No, I'd better get to the office," Lewis replied, taking a sip of the coffee, and wincing as he moved, "at the very least I can sign off some paperwork, or something…"

Hathaway eyed him doubtfully, but did not protest. Instead, he glanced at the bandages; "At least let me put a clean dressing on that – perhaps something more subtle than the full-frontal lobotomy patient look you've got going on there."

Lewis gave a tired snort of a laugh, and allowed Hathaway to peel off the bandages. He tried to ignore the hissing noise the younger man made when he carefully removed the gauze.

"Good grief… surely you should have had this stitched?"

"It's not still bleeding, is it?"

"No, but… it looks like there are two separate wounds."

"Aye. I think he hit me twice. Might have been with that stone paperweight our Lynn gave us last time she visited…"

Hathaway fetched a bowl of water and a first aid kit from the kitchen, and did his best to clean off some of the dried, matted blood, before applying a fresh dressing, which he taped in place as best he could. Lewis held still, and, when Hathaway had finished, he slowly got to his feet, suppressing a groan.

"I'm going to get changed," he murmured, "mind if I use your shower?"

"Go ahead," Hathaway replied, "best not get the dressing wet, though, sir… I packed you a few bits last night; I hope it's the right stuff."

"It'll be fine, thanks, Jim," Lewis replied, with a small, grateful smile, "look, thanks for all this… I appreciate it."

"Oh, no worries, sir, I'm sure you'd do the same for me."

"Aye. Just warn me if you think you're going to get burgled and clocked on the head – I'd need to go out and buy a first aid kit…"

* * *

Lewis emerged from the bathroom a short while later, dressed in a casual rugby shirt and jeans. Hathaway, on the phone, caught his look, and covered the mouthpiece with his hand to explain.

"Sorry, sir – wasn't sure if you'd make it into the office today…"

Breaking off, Hathaway listened to the person on the other end of the call. From the look on the Sergeant's face, and from what Lewis could hear, it was Chief Superintendent Innocent – and she did not sound happy.

"I understand, ma'am," Hathaway was saying, "yes, ma'am, I do realise that… yes, but he was violently assaulted last night, ma'am… yes, ma'am… yes… yes… yes, ma'am, I'll bring him in as soon as he's ready. Yes, of course, ma'am, straight to your office. Ma'am."

Hanging up with a relieved sigh, Hathaway gave Lewis an apologetic look.

"Don't tell me, I can guess," Lewis sighed, leaning heavily against the door-frame, "she wants to see us, right away…"

"I think it's got something to do with the late night disturbance," Hathaway offered, "am I allowed to comment that our superior officer gets a bit ratty when she hasn't had her beauty sleep?"

Lewis smiled, resisting the urge to slide to the floor. He had never noticed how much hard work went into standing up before now.

"It's a fair comment," he replied, "I dare you to say it to her face."

"Better a live coward than a dead legend," Hathaway paraphrased, "if you're sure you're alright, sir…?"

"Yes," Lewis said, trying to put some strength into his voice, "come on then, James; we'd better go and face the music."

* * *

As the new day started over Oxford, the student seminars continued. Professor Woodman leaned back in her chair, closing her eyes briefly, listening to Annabelle and Ayesha discussing pattern behaviour in serial killing. She suppressed a smile; the debate amused her slightly.

"But most serial killers do fall into a pattern," Annabelle pointed out, "either their _modus operandi_ is always the same, or else something like the type of victim, their location, their motive, their behaviour after the act – they all have some kind of ritual, some calling card or marker. It's this above all else that allows the police to track them down and catch them."

"You make it sound too easy," Ayesha protested, "I agree there can be patterns, but what if the pattern is not immediately obvious? What if it is something that the killer does that only he or she knows about – some private ritual afterwards? The kills might be so violently different that it becomes impossible to connect them. I believe most serial killers – the cleverer ones, I mean – are only caught when they make a mistake."

"I think ritual links into motive," Annabelle replied, "there must be something that marks them out as different."

"Have you ever met a serial killer?" Woodman interrupted, quietly, "I have. I made a great study of them, before my… well, that's beside the point. I had a great many conversations with Oxford's own infamous serial killer, Jeremy Jackson. He was an unusual case, I must say. But did you know that killers are often described by their friends and neighbours as 'normal' or 'average', 'a friendly sort', 'charming', 'charismatic', and so on? Ted Bundy actually said that 'we are your sons, we are your husbands, and we grew up in regular families'. Now, obviously, as we've discussed, that is not true for all serial killers. You fail to grasp that some people kill simply because they enjoy it, and there may not be any immediately obvious physical or psychological reasoning as to why."

"Have you spoken to many serial killers, Professor?" Andrew asked, with interest.

"I travelled widely before my accident," Woodman replied, with a nod, "to a great many jails and penitentiaries, here and around the world."

"Didn't any of them scare you?" Zoë asked, a little nervously, as if she were afraid to hear the answer.

"Only a very few," Woodman answered, a distant look in her eyes, "barely half-a-dozen of them. They were the ones who were the hardest to catch, and should never be released. The ones who chose their victims randomly but planned the murders meticulously, and then killed without compunction or regret. They were the hunters… anyway, I think that's enough for today. Next week, I'd like you to come equipped with some ideas on other applications for the study of criminal psychology. We will come back to serial killers later in the course."

The students saw themselves out, mumbling their thanks, already discussing their thoughts and ideas. Only Andrew hung back, and Woodman smiled. Andrew was one of her favourite pupils, though she knew she should treat them all equally. He was quiet but confident, thoughtful, gentle, curious, and always wanting to know more.

"Was there something else you wanted to discuss, Andrew?" she asked him, reaching down to a lever in the side of the chair, reclining it slightly, "I'm not too tired yet, if you wish to stay."

Andrew smiled, quickly; "Actually, I was hoping I could come by this afternoon for a discussion of my thesis – would five o'clock be okay?"

Woodman smiled; "Check my diary. If there's nothing in it, write it in…"

"Five it is," Andrew said, "See you later, Professor!"

* * *

Chief Superintendent Jean Innocent sighed, leaned her elbow on her desk, and rested her jaw in her cupped hand as she surveyed the two officers before her. Hathaway was as immaculately presented as ever, in a sharp black suit and a pale blue tie. Lewis, on the other hand, looked like the sole survivor of a disaster; Innocent could tell immediately from the way he stood that he was in pain. One eye was swollen shut and badly bruised, and he looked pale and shaky.

"Oh, for heaven's sake," she said, closing her eyes, and shaking her head, "at ease, both of you. Lewis, for Christ's sake; sit down before you fall down."

Hathaway obligingly pushed a chair over toward Lewis, who took it and sat down carefully, disguising a wince as he did so. Hathaway perched on the table behind him, casting a significant glance at the back of the Inspector's head. Innocent wondered at the extent of the damage; but decided that it couldn't have been that bad, if he hadn't had to go to hospital.

"Would you like to tell me what happened?" Innocent asked, eventually, glancing at each of them in turn.

"It's simple enough, ma'am," Lewis replied, tiredly, "I got home from the pub last night to find my flat had been broken into. I obviously disturbed the burglar – he hit me from behind, and escaped."

"You're sure it was a burglary?" Innocent said, sharply, "Not a personal attack?"

"I don't know," Lewis touched his eye and winced slightly, "I haven't been back yet to see what was taken, if anything."

"This could be serious, Lewis – and I do take attacks on my officers very seriously."

"It's bad for the budget, all that sick pay," Hathaway commented, dryly.

"Shut up," Innocent told him, bluntly, "Lewis, take the rest of the day off – you've no major active files at the moment. Go and oversee what's happening at your flat, but leave the investigation to uniform, okay?"

"Understood, ma'am," Lewis replied, quietly.

"And take the boy wonder with you," she added, jerking her head towards Hathaway, "he can chauffer you around."

"Thank you very much, ma'am," Hathaway said, deadpan, hopping off the table, as Lewis got to his feet.

Innocent gave him a pointed look, and then flicked her gaze to Lewis's back, and mouthed a silent order; 'Keep an eye on him.'

Hathaway nodded back with a very clear; 'I will.'

* * *

As Lewis and Hathaway were heading towards the exit of the station, they met Inspector Hogan coming from the other way.

"Lewis!" she exclaimed, "I was just coming to find you. I heard what happened – are you alright?"

"Fine," Lewis told her, unconvincingly.

Hogan peered at him; "You don't look fine. I hope Jean gave you the day off."

"Only to tidy my flat and find out what's missing," Lewis sighed, dreading the task, "I'm to stay out of the way of the investigation and forensics, though."

"That's good," Hogan grinned, "I've already taken it over."

"What?" Lewis stared at her, blankly, "You've done what?"

"Switched a file with the investigating officer so that matter comes under my remit," she replied, airily, "uniform will do all the leg-work, but they'll report to me, and if I want to throw some of my team at it, I can. Oh, and I can put the word out amongst a few of my contacts."

"How does a common burglary come under the remit of the Vice squad?" Lewis called after her, as Hogan turned on her heel and walked towards the exit.

"Because; whoever it was, they made the singular mistake of attacking a friend of mine," Hogan called back, over her shoulder, "Are you two coming or what? I want to check out my crime scene!"

Lewis and Hathaway exchanged a look; Lewis was dazed, and Hathaway was trying not to laugh.

"Don't say it," Lewis warned him.

"I won't, sir," Hathaway responded, "but… she is a bloody marvel."

"Aye… you're telling me."

* * *

They followed Hogan outside, and the two of them got into Hathaway's car. Lewis's still stood in his parking space from the night before – he suddenly realised it was probably going to be a while before he was capable of driving again. Hogan climbed into her distinctive Mitsubishi Shogun, following Hathaway as he pulled out of the car park.

They crawled through the mid-morning traffic until they were clear of the city centre, and an uneventful drive had them outside Lewis's ground-floor maisonette within a very short space of time. Hathaway turned off the engine, and for a few moments, Lewis stared sadly at the crime scene tape across the open front door. A SOCO emerged from beneath the tape, carrying an evidence bag, which he took over to the van parked in the driveway.

Lewis got out of the car, shutting the door, and leaning back against the vehicle. He was reluctant to go inside again; the devastation he had seen last night could only have been made worse by the forensics people pawing through his personal belongings. Hogan came up beside him, even as Hathaway walked around the other side of the car to join them.

"SOCOs have put a rush on it," Hogan reported, quietly, resting a hand on Lewis's shoulder "uniform have asked that you send them a list of anything that you find missing when you get back, but they think the burglar took your TV, DVD player and your record player."

"Oh, not the record player," Lewis groaned, "That was a present from… damn."

Hathaway glanced away, knowing who the record player must have come from, and cleared his throat. Hogan winced with sympathy, and withdrew her hand, realising how raw Lewis was feeling.

"Come on," she said, "I'll chivvy them along a bit, and then we can start doing some clearing up. It won't take long between the three of us."

She went inside, and Lewis followed a few steps behind. Hogan ripped the crime scene tape from the door, balling it up and shoving it in her pocket.

"Right, you lot! If you've got everything you need, pack up and get out," she ordered, "give us some space, will you?"

"Just ten more minutes, ma'am," said one of the men, in a bored tone, as he picked up samples of broken glass from the floor, "you'll have to wait."

Hathaway's gaze fell on an evidence bag on the worktop containing the sharp-edged grey slate paperweight Lewis had referred to as a gift from his daughter. There were traces of blood on one edge, and Hathaway winced, looking away again quickly. Hogan knelt down, flicking her leather trench-coat behind her as she did so, so that she was on eye-level with the SOCO.

"You've got five minutes," she told him, in a low voice, "and if you speak to me in that tone of voice again, I'll nail you to the wall of your choosing, got it? And don't you dare call me 'ma'am'."

"Yes, ma… sir?"

"Good lad."

* * *

That afternoon found Professor Woodman alone in her study on the Lonsdale campus. There was a convenient settee along one wall upon which she lay when feeling particularly tired or in pain. It was in this position in a light doze that Andrew, the student who had arranged a meeting with her, found her, just after five o'clock. He knocked gently on the door, and Woodman snapped awake with a gasp.

"Oh! Of course; Andrew… I'm terribly sorry, do come in…" Woodman beckoned him inside, sitting up as quickly as she could, reaching for her cane, "Take a seat, and I'll make us some tea."

They were soon ensconced in two of the most comfortable armchairs, and Woodman made sure to pull a blanket over her legs, embarrassed by her own frailty.

"Now," she said, at last, meeting Andrew's gaze, "I understand that you wanted to talk to me about your thesis."

"Yes," Andrew nodded, quickly, setting down his back-pack and pulling out a folder full of notes, "I decided that I wanted to focus on the various motivations behind the act of murder from a psychological perspective, with a particular study on the depravities of the serial killer."

"A very interesting topic," Woodman inclined her head, with a slight smile, "and no doubt there is a wealth of information available in the library and the Internet. What seems to be the problem?"

Andrew hesitated, waving one hand vaguely; "The information I've found is either entirely academic or it's… grotesque. A kind of sensationalised homage to the actions of these people. I wondered if you might give me some… well, some real life insights."

"I'm not going to write your thesis for you," Woodman smiled, "but yes, I can give you a few pointers. You will never suppress media interest in the serial killer – barely a month goes by when I don't have a newspaper editor calling me about an ongoing case, a cold case from years back, a feature they are running or some anniversary of a crime or the death of the killer. People are fascinated by serial killers, perhaps because the motives can be so hard to comprehend. Besides, all humans seem to share a morbid fascination for the macabre… but that is a subject for a whole other thesis!"

She paused to drink her tea, as Andrew took out a notepad, pen poised.

"Here's your starter for ten," Woodman said, "According to Dr. J. Reid Meloy, the psychopath is only capable of sadomasochistic relationships based on power, not attachment. Psychopaths identify with the aggressive role model, such as an abusive parent, and attack the weaker, more vulnerable self by projecting it onto others."

"Their victims?"

"Of course. But not all killers are psychopaths – indeed, the defence of insanity, while frequently raised, is rarely successful. But that is beside the point. In many cases, killers – whether serial or not – decide that their victims do not deserve to live, because they are weak, or they have cause great offence in some way – for example, the murderers who have targeted prostitutes sometimes claim to have done so because their victims were unclean in some way, and had to die."

"But there are other motivations…" Andrew prompted her.

"Oh yes," Woodman nodded, "A great many more than your thesis word limit would allow you to write about…"

* * *

The forensics team cleared Lewis's home well within Hogan's five minute deadline. Surveying the wreckage of his kitchen and living room, Lewis despaired of ever having the place habitable again. A glazier had been sent out and the broken window had been fixed very quickly, but there were still shards of glass trodden into the carpet, papers and personal belongings strewn everywhere, and Lewis winced in particular at the sight of his own blood still marring the carpet.

However, after only a couple of hours' work, Hogan had the kitchen immaculate, and Hathaway had cleared most of the living room. Lewis assisted as much as possible, but spent most of the time relegated to the settee to 'take it easy'. His head spun every time he tried to move, and between his hand, his ribs and his black eye, he felt utterly beaten.

Around mid-afternoon, thoroughly exhausted and aching all over, Lewis sat down heavily on the sofa, awkwardly holding in his right hand a sheaf of papers and the black box-file that he thought they had come out of.

"Lewis! Where the bloody hell do you keep your beer?" Hogan called out, from the kitchen.

"Real ales are in the cupboard by the window, and the lagers are in the salad drawer in the fridge," he replied, wincing, placing the papers on his lap and gingerly touching the back of his head, "ah… just water for me, please."

Hogan reappeared with three open bottles of ale; "Sorry? I didn't quite catch that last bit," she said, handing a bottle over.

"Thanks," Lewis sighed, accepting it, "come on, Hathaway, let's give it a rest for now…"

The three of them took seats, Hogan and Lewis on the settee, Hathaway in the armchair. A tired silence fell over them all, as Lewis stared sadly at the spot where his record player had been. It was quite an old one, with record, CD and tape decks, but it had been an expensive one, a gift from Val that he would have been loathe to replace. Now, it seemed, he had no choice.

Glancing at the other two, he noticed that Hathaway was flicking absently though an old photo album, smirking to himself, no doubt at the clothing styles and haircuts. Hogan was rapidly demolishing the bottle of beer she had purloined from the cupboard. Glancing down at the papers on his lap, Lewis frowned slightly, put his beer down, and then began to paw through the papers with a growing sense of loss. Hogan caught the look on his face, and raised an eyebrow.

"What is it?" she asked, setting down the beer, "What's missing?"

"Our Val's passport," Lewis said, a note of confusion creeping into his voice, "Mine's here – so's the marriage certificate. I kept everything together, but her passport… it's gone…"

"Passport are quite valuable for fake IDs and the like," Hathaway commented.

"Yes, but why take hers and leave mine? It doesn't make sense."

"Maybe the burglar just missed yours amongst the paperwork," Hogan replied, "try not to worry about it, Robbie – we'll get it back for you. My informants don't know why, but they know I really want the person who did this. And they know it will be worth their while if they're the one who gives him to me."

Lewis gave her a grateful look, tossed the papers haphazardly into the box file, and dropped it onto the floor beside him. He leaned back in the chair, and closed his eyes briefly against the pain. Suddenly aware of a movement at his elbow, he opened his good eye to find Hathaway, proffering a glass of water and a box of painkillers. Lewis raised a pained smile, and held out his hand as Hathaway dropped two of the pills into his palm. Lewis quickly swallowed them, and then accepted the water with a mumble of thanks.

"Have you got any ice?" Hogan asked, glancing across at him.

"There's some in the freezer," Lewis replied, his voice a hoarse whisper as he leaned back and closed his eyes, "Whiskey and Gin are in the drinks cabinet…"

"No, not for that," she laughed, "I meant for your eye – to try to take some of the swelling down. You look awful... you're never going to pull looking like that."

Lewis shot her a baleful glare, even as Hathaway snickered to himself and disappeared into the kitchen again, returning a few minutes later with some ice cubes, wrapped up in cling-film and a tea-towel. He very carefully applied it to the swollen eye, and Lewis whispered his thanks, holding it in place with his right hand, leaning his head back on the settee, flinching slightly as the wound on the back of his head came into contact with the cushions. He suppressed an audible groan at the wonderful coldness.

"Dear God," Hogan said, glancing down at his left hand, as she carefully sat down next to him on the sofa, "What happened to your hand?"

She took his wrist and gently lifted his hand into hers, examining the swelling and bruising around his fingers.

"The bastard stood on it," Lewis muttered, by way of explanation, not bothering to open his eyes.

"You really need to get that looked at, sir," Hathaway observed, exchanging a worried glance with Hogan.

Lewis was trying to form a coherent objection, when the opening chords of Guns N Roses 'Sweet Child O' Mine' suddenly sounded, very loudly. Hogan pulled her phone from her pocket and answered it, cutting off the music; "Hogan."

Lewis, leaning back on the settee, with his eyes closed, holding the ice-pack in place, did not see the colour drain from Hogan's face. Hathaway did, and he gently nudged Lewis's arm. The Inspector glanced up, and frowned; Hogan had gone as white as a sheet as she listened to voice on the other end of the line, staring fixedly at the wall.

"Give me the location," she said, "no, I haven't got a pen – send the GPS co-ordinates to my phone. And keep a lid on this – I do not want to hear this as the hot topic around the station over lunchtime tomorrow!"

She snapped the phone shut, dropped it into her pocket, and snatched up her coat from where she had thrown it over the back of a chair earlier.

"Am I allowed to ask what's going on, Ally?"

Hogan hesitated, and then flung her coat on, standing a little straighter.

"That was Dennis, my Sergeant," she explained, "we have to go, now. Jean wants us on a scene."

"I thought I'd got the day off," Lewis groaned, not wanting to leave the comfort of the sofa.

"It's just been cancelled," Hogan said, bluntly, "Robbie, it's Simon Monkford – he's been murdered."

* * *

_**A/N: **Ooh, look - there's finally been a murder! Simon Monkford was the hit-and-run driver responsible for the death of Val Lewis; has someone decided to even the score...?_


	3. Chapter 3

Lunchtime that day found Professor Woodman delivering a very rare lecture in one of the university halls. It was well attended by students, staff, academics, and even a few journalists looking for 'filler' material for any slow news days or to tag onto any interesting stories over the next few months.

Woodman had been forced by the cold weather to resort to her wheelchair, but the microphone clipped to her jacket amplified her voice, sounding strong and authoritative as she spoke.

"And so we come to the matter of psychosis," she was saying, to a rapt audience, "it is all too easy to characterise the killer, especially the serial killer, as somehow being crazy or insane."

She paused, and swept her eyes over the room, noticing several police officers in her audience. They were not in uniform, but she recognised some of them from previous sessions, or cases that she had advised on.

"But are serial killers really insane?" she asked, concentrating on the lecture, "By your standards, maybe they are. However, unfortunately, they are not by legal standards. The incidence of psychosis among murderers is no greater than the incidence of psychosis in the total population. Yet serial killers will do just about anything to convince others of their insanity upon capture. Being declared "legally insane" means avoiding harsher penalties of law, such as maximum security prisons, or, in other countries, the death penalty. In addition, if the culprit can convince his jailors that he has fully recovered, there is the hope of actually being released."

Woodman paused, taking a drink of water from a glass on the table at her elbow.

"Besides," she remarked, "I consider that with the meticulous planning that goes into many murders, one must have a remarkable level of planning, foresight and wit to carry out the crime, often a level of reasoning beyond that of the true psychopath…"

* * *

"What?"

"Monkford. He's dead – murdered. Dennis is at the sister's house now – apparently Innocent wants us on the case."

Lewis tried to stand up, but collapsed back into the chair, clamping a hand to his head. Hathaway frowned as the Inspector took in a deep, shuddering breath.

"It looks like you've got a pretty nasty concussion there, sir," he commented.

"Aye," Lewis let out a shaky breath, and then stood up, a little more slowly this time; "It'll pass…"

"You should take him to the hospital," Hogan said, matter-of-factly, "I can report back to you on the Monkford case – he's not worth the attention of all three of us, no matter what Jean says…"

"If he's been murdered, I want in on the investigation," Lewis tried to argue, but swayed slightly, and would have fallen if Hogan had not reached out and placed a steadying hand on his shoulder, "Besides, Innocent wanted…"

"Bugger what she wants; I'll deal with her," Hogan promised, "Hathaway, take this silly bugger down to the Radcliffe and get him checked out."

"Yes sir," Hathaway said, taking Lewis's arm, "You heard the lady, sir. Orders are orders."

"Err…I'm the senior Inspector here," Lewis pointed out, without rancour.

"Yes, and as you so rightly pointed out earlier, you've got the day off, making me the senior officer on duty," Hogan told him, smugly, "Now go on – don't worry, I'll find you later and fill you in. There's a pub just around the corner from the hospital…"

"We'll meet you there, sir," Hathaway rolled his eyes, as he escorted Lewis out towards the car, "Tell me, sir – is the ability to survive on just beer and cigarettes a prerequisite to becoming an Inspector?"

"I…," Lewis tried to respond, in a dull, distant voice, "Um…"

Hathaway lunged, just in time to grab Lewis before he could fall; "Steady on, sir," he said, quickly.

Hooking Lewis's right arm over his shoulders, Hathaway all but carried him out to the car, where Lewis all but fell into the passenger seat. Hathaway got in, and, starting up the engine, reversed up the drive and then pulled out onto the main road. As he did so, Hogan stepped outside, shut the door, and locked it behind her with a spare set of keys she had surreptitiously lifted from the kitchen drawer. Getting into her massive four-by-four, she switched on the siren, and, gunning the engine, she drove off in a squeal of tyre-smoke in the other direction.

* * *

Several hours crawled by, to Hathaway's perspective, as afternoon wore on into late evening at the hospital. He had been itching to get out of the hospital as soon as they had arrived, wanting to know what had happened to Simon Monkford, the man who had pleaded guilty to manslaughter and then walked out of Court freely just a day or so previously. However, he confined himself to patiently sitting in one of the waiting rooms of the hospital, playing Tetris on his phone to occupy himself.

Eventually, his concentration was broken when a familiar figure stood over him and held out a plastic cup of hot brown something from the nearby vending machine.

"Any word from Hogan yet?" Lewis rasped.

Hathaway gaped at him for a moment, and then, pocketing the phone, and accepting the cup, he got to his feet. The bruise on Lewis's eye stood out starkly under the fluorescent light, and the hand that held his drink shook slightly.

"Not yet, sir," Hathaway said, averting his gaze quickly, not wanting to stare, "What did the doctor say?"

Lewis rolled his eyes; "Four butterfly stitches in the back of me head… concussion, three cracked ribs, hairline crack in the finger bone, and of course this shiner…"

He pointed to his bruised eye with his left hand, showing two fingers had been strapped together, and sighed; "I've got some strong painkillers and a two-week sick note. Now, what's happening with Monkford?"

"I'll try to find out, sir," Hathaway promised, "would you like a lift home first?"

"No, I'd like a lift to the crime scene," Lewis shot back, as they left the hospital, heading towards the car, "I want to know exactly what's going on here…"

Hathaway took his phone from his pocket, but just as he was about to dial Hogan's number, the phone rang with an incoming call.

"It's the Chief Super," he said, quickly, as he answered the phone; "Hathaway."

He listened to her speak as he unlocked his car and climbed in, watching from the corner of his eye as Lewis very carefully lowered himself into the passenger seat. Hathaway stared fixedly at the steering wheel, saying nothing, and then ended the call with; "Yes, ma'am. We're on our way."

Lewis glanced across at Hathaway as the younger man carefully backed out of his parking space and pulled out of the car park.

"What's happened?" he asked, eventually, breaking the ominous silence.

"Hogan called Innocent from Monkford's house," Hathaway replied, grimly, "Monkford was found tied up and apparently stabbed to death. They found a passport with the body…"

"A passport…? Not…?"

"I'm afraid so, sir. The passport was your wife's."

* * *

Hogan stepped outside the house in time to greet Lewis and Hathaway. It was dark out, and the red and blue lights of the response cars lit the scene in an ominous glow. Hogan strode up to them, stripping off a pair of latex evidence gloves and shoving them into one of the pockets of her trademark leather trench-coat as she approached them. Hathaway noted the determination in her step, and the exhaustion written into her features.

"You look like shit," she said, bluntly, to Lewis, "Look, Dr. Hobson's about to bring the body out. You can see him later... forensics are taking over the house. In the meantime… I'm really sorry, but I've got to put this into evidence."

She held out an evidence bag, and Lewis took it, with shaking hands. Inside, was a very familiar passport. It was open at the photo page, showing an old photograph of Val. The picture was marred, however, by a very clear fingerprint, and Lewis was horrified to realise that the imprint was in blood. He quickly handed it back, and Hogan secreted the bag into one of her many pockets in her huge coat.

Hogan turned, as the front door opened again, and a gurney was wheeled out by two white-clad pathology assistants, followed by Dr Laura Hobson, who crossed over to them quickly. A small crowd was gathering around the house, drawn by the ambulance and multiple police cars cordoning off the property.

"It's definitely Monkford," she reported, quickly, "If you want to have a look, do it at the lab, not in front of these gore-mongering vultures. Good grief, Lewis, you look terrible."

"I know," Lewis sighed, "Can you tell us what happened yet?"

Hobson glanced between Lewis and Hogan.

"That depends. Have you decided which of you is in charge yet?"

"I am," Hogan said, firmly, "Lewis is… oh, what's the word…?"

"Assisting with enquiries," Hathaway supplied.

"That's the bugger," Hogan nodded, snapping her fingers, "right, come on – I need to get back to the station, and you, Lewis, look like you could do with a couple of hours' sleep. Laura, can you give us a shout when you've finished the autopsy? Cheers."

Hobson waved quickly as she climbed into her car. They went to their separate vehicles, and left the forensics teams to do their job.

* * *

A few hours later, the three of them reconvened at the pathology lab. Hogan had been to the station, reported to Innocent, and co-ordinated some of the forensics reports already coming back on the Monkton case. Lewis had been to his flat, showered, and changed into a suit. Hobson met them in the lab, over the table containing the sheet-covered body of a man Lewis had hoped to have no further involvement with.

"Are you supposed to be on duty?" Hobson eyed him, doubtfully.

"I'm fine," Lewis said, shortly, "let's get on, shall we?"

"Very well," Hobson nodded; "You've given me a real challenge here, folks," she said, as she walked slowly around the autopsy table, "there's definitely something odd going on here…"

"Anything you can tell us might be helpful at this stage," Lewis replied, folding his arms and taking a deep breath, concentrating on standing up, while staring down at the corpse spread out before him.

"Well, let's start with the cause of death," Hobson said, "exsanguination – he bled to death, from numerous knife wounds. All were fairly deep, but they were slashes, not stabs…"

Hobson emphasised her words by making a slashing motion with her hand, tracing some of the wounds on the victim's body.

"It looks frenzied, but I think it was more likely a calculated act – something that could have gone on for an hour or more," she continued, "I found sticky residue over his mouth and lips – I'd say he was gagged, with something like gaffer tape, to stop him screaming…"

Hogan winced in sympathy, but leaned in closer as Hobson pointed; "I've sent a sample to forensics, but you'll probably find it's just a mass-produced version you can pick up in any DIY store. There are thirty three separate slash wounds, including both wrists. Your victim took a long time to die."

"Poor sod," Hogan murmured, in spite of herself, "when I saw him at the scene, I noticed wounds on his hands – I take it he put up a fight?"

"Are you trying to do my job as well as your own?" Hobson smiled, "yes. His hands are slashed and his nails are broken. He clawed at his attacker, like so, and tore his nails."

"Any trace?"

"Nothing at all," Hobson spread her hands in a gesture of surrender, "I'm at a loss. Either your killer was extremely careful to clean his own skin or clothing traces out of the victim's fingernails, or he simply didn't leave any."

"There was a hell of a lot of blood in the house – he was definitely killed there," Hogan noted, frowning down at the corpse, "time of death?"

"I would have to say sometime early today, around about three in the morning," Hobson replied, pulling the sheet back over the sorry sight on the autopsy table, "Does that help?"

"Well," Hogan shoved her hands into her pockets, and gave Lewis a thoughtful, sideways look, "It confirms your alibi, at any rate, Robbie – I think you were in Hathaway's care at the time."

"He was," Hathaway confirmed, and then leaned towards Hogan with a stage whisper; "he was in my bed."

Hogan gave a whoop of a laugh, as Hobson raised her eyebrows towards Lewis, who glared at them all. Hogan held up her hands; "I had to ask."

"Is there anything else that you can tell us?" Lewis asked, tiredly.

"Not at this stage," Hobson shook her head, "I'll know more when the forensics come back. Any theories on your end?"

"Not as yet," Hogan said, grimly, "beyond the obvious, I mean…"

* * *

"So spell out the obvious," Innocent told them, folding her arms.

It was extremely late. Most of the office was in darkness. However, Innocent, Lewis, Hogan and Hathaway were sitting in the briefing room around the whiteboard, nursing mugs of hot coffee, and discussing the notes Hogan had scribbled on the whiteboard.

Hogan got to her feet, and pointed to the board.

"Here's the timeline," she said, tapping a pen in the palm of her hand, "first of all, we have Simon Monkford, released from Court on a suspended sentence. We three all went straight to the pub together. We stayed there until closing at eleven. Inspector Lewis takes a taxi home, finds he's been burgled, and gets coshed by the intruder. We logged the call from Lewis to the emergency switchboard at ten past midnight. The first officers were on the scene at twenty-past. Hathaway arrived at ten to one, and he and Lewis left the scene at about quarter past."

"I took Inspector Lewis to my flat," Hathaway supplied, picking up the narrative, "I checked his head injury and he went to bed. I stayed up; neither of us left the flat until around seven-thirty."

"Monkford was murdered at around three in the morning," Lewis spoke up, from where he was slumped in a chair, "whoever it was who broke into my flat and… and stole… stole Val's passport… must have gone straight from there to Monkford's house."

"So whoever it was knew where you lived, and where Monkford lived," Innocent stated, thinking aloud, "though Monkford would have confirmed his address at the trial – anyone attending could have jotted it down, and the Courts don't keep records of the visiting public."

"I don't understand why he would've… why would he want Val's passport?" Lewis sighed, massaging his temples as he spoke, "Why the connection to our Val? Whoever killed Monkford was making the reason obvious…"

He broke off, staring down at the floor, head in hands. Hogan was nodding slowly; "Monkford was killed because someone thought he got away with being responsible for the death of Valerie Lewis. The bloody fingerprint over the passport photo came back as an exact match to Monkford – like some sort of signature of guilt."

"The attack wasn't as frenzied as it looked initially," Hathaway surmised, "Dr Hobson commented that it had been designed to cause maximum suffering – Monkford was probably tortured to death over the course of an hour."

"Someone obviously decided that he was responsible for Val's death and he deserved to pay for it," Hogan murmured, pacing the room slowly, "Lewis, you do realise that but for Hathaway as your alibi, you'd be suspect number one?"

"Aye," Lewis did not look up, and Innocent glared across at him.

"By rights I should remove you from this case," the Chief Superintendent told him, firmly, "stay out of the way of this investigation, Lewis – Hogan will lead the enquiry. No, don't give me that look – you're supposed to be on sick leave. I'm assigning you to light desk duties, if you won't stay at home, and the official line will be that you're assisting with enquiries, got it?"

Too tired to argue, Lewis simply sighed; "Yes, ma'am…"

"There's one thing I don't understand," Hathaway spoke up, watching Hogan pacing, "if someone killed Monkford for the reason we suspect… well, that would imply some close connection to Mrs Lewis, or at least to her death… if that's the case, why would that person assault Inspector Lewis?"

"I was trying to work that one out myself," Hogan replied, as Lewis finally looked up, "I've got more questions than I've got answers, and none of my usual informants can tell me anything, which is bloody bizarre… killers don't just appear out of nowhere…"

"Well, this is getting us nowhere," Innocent declared, getting to her feet, "I suggest you all go home and get some sleep – you're going to need to be sharp tomorrow. The minute the media get hold of this, there will be hell to pay."

She gave each of them a final glare, and stalked out of the office. The three of them watched her go, and breathed a communal sigh of relief. As soon as she was sure Innocent was out of earshot, Hogan swore violently, and smacked the whiteboard, sending it crashing to the floor, making both Hathaway and Lewis jump, the latter letting out an involuntary gasp as his injuries protested loudly.

"Right," Hogan took a deep breath, putting her hands on her hips, "now I feel a bit better. I'm going to crack this, Lewis – you just bloody watch me."

With that, she strode out of the office in a billow of leather coat, leaving Lewis and Hathaway behind in silence.

Eventually, Hathaway spoke; "Is she always like this?"

"Nope," Lewis replied, rubbing his face, exhaustedly, "Sometimes, she's positively unpredictable."


	4. Chapter 4

Early the next morning, glad to be back in his own flat, Lewis got out of bed at the sound of the newspaper hitting the mat by the front door. Pulling on his dressing gown, he picked up the paper. As he had feared, Monkford's murder was front-page news. Out of a sense of morbid curiosity, he read the article, and then threw the paper into the recycling in disgust. His name was mentioned, obviously, but the writer obviously hadn't decided which side of the fence to jump; Lewis had a feeling that when the story next ran, he would either be smeared as a vengeful cop gone bad who'd murdered the man guilty of killing his wife, or he would be the helpless victim who couldn't solve the crime and should be drummed out of the force for either gross ineptitude or some sort of emotional breakdown. Neither prospect was appealing.

Suddenly, on the coffee table, his phone began to ring with an insistent buzzing. Lewis sighed, and snatched it up.

"Yes, Lewis."

"Hathaway, sir," said the familiar voice on the line, "sir, I know you're supposed to be taking a few days rest, and I'm sorry to disturb you, but there's been a murder… the Chief Super has had to assign it to us; apparently everyone else has a full case load. I'll come and pick you up."

Lewis closed his eyes, and nodded slowly.

"Okay…"

* * *

Lewis knelt down in his rustling blue scene suit, careful not to kneel in the pool of blood that was rapidly soaking into the carpet of the office, congealing into a dark brown stain. He was in a small office suite, a former shop located some way off the high street, which had been converted into an estate agency, specialising in low-rent student accommodation. Their victim was a middle-aged balding man, who had apparently been attacked with a knife.

"Multiple slash wounds," Dr Laura Hobson was saying, as she examined the body, "he's been here overnight – he's been dead at least five hours. Defensive wounds on his hands say he faced his killer, and put up a fight, but there don't appear to be any hairs or traces of skin under his finger nails, so it doesn't seem like he was much of a match for whoever did this…"

"This is all sounding horribly familiar," Lewis commented, getting to his feet carefully, cradling his ribs with his strapped-up left hand.

He offered his right hand to Hobson, and gallantly helped her to stand. For her part, Hobson was careful not to lean on Lewis too heavily; he still looked terribly pale, which made the livid black eye stand out all the more, and he moved with an exaggerated care which indicated, to her medical eye, that he was in a great deal pain.

"I'll probably be able to tell you more after the autopsy," she promised.

Lewis nodded to her, and glanced back at Hathaway, who was standing out of the way by the door, wearing his usual immaculate suit.

"Who found the body?" Lewis asked, quickly.

"Secretary, Lisa Cotes," Hathaway replied, without needing to check his notes, "she's been taken to hospital to be treated for shock. She was pretty incoherent when I got here."

"When we're done here, get over to the hospital and see if you can get a statement out of her," Lewis told him, straightening up gingerly and taking off his gloves as he crossed over to the sergeant, "who's our victim?"

"The owner," supplied Hathaway, "Brian Cox. The secretary did manage to tell me that he was working late last night to finish off some contracts on a new set of flats for one of their top landlord clients. He's wearing a wedding ring, sir…"

"So there might be a Mrs Cox whose husband didn't come home last night," Lewis finished grimly.

Lewis hated giving people that sort of bad news – he had been on the receiving end once, and it had been the worst moment of his life. It also gave him a level of insight into the recipient's reactions, with which he always tried to empathise. He sighed.

"Anything else either of you can tell me?" he asked, "Time of death?"

"Time of death was around three this morning. Anything else you'll know after the autopsy," Hobson replied, cheerfully, "you know the rules."

Lewis raised a small smile, and glanced across as Hathaway, who simply shook his head.

"Right, then," Lewis announced, "we'll catch up with you later, doctor."

Hobson raised a hand in a farewell gesture, as the two of them left the back office, passing through the corridor into the front showroom of the agency, where large boards advertised various student properties to rent. Lewis paused, and glanced down at the floor. Something burgundy-coloured was sticking out from under the desk, only a tiny corner of which was visible. Lewis pulled his gloves from his pocket, and, bending down awkwardly, he used one to pick up the item.

"A passport," Hathaway noted, "left by a student for ID, do you think?"

"Aye, maybe," Lewis replied, opening it carefully with the other glove, "but then again, maybe not…"

He showed Hathaway the inside page. The photograph of the passport owner was obscured by a very visible, dark red fingerprint.

"Get Hogan on the line," Lewis said, grimly, "we've got another one."

* * *

Lewis was unable to reach Hogan at all, so they went to the hospital to interview the secretary. Lewis sent Hathaway to conduct the interview solo, pointing to his bruised face and commenting that he didn't wish to scare the poor girl further.

Eventually, Hathaway emerged from a side room, presenting Lewis with a cup of tea.

"Cheers," Lewis murmured, and blew on it, gently, "the doctors said that the poor girl's hysterical. Imagine walking in and finding your boss murdered like that."

"Sometimes I do, sir," Hathaway dead-panned.

Lewis gave him a side-ways look, but only got a half-smile in return. He sighed, and concentrated on drinking his tea without his hands shaking too much.

"Did you get much out of her?" he asked the Sergeant.

"Not much," Hathaway shook his head, "she didn't see anyone, he ran the business alone, just her as staff, she didn't think he was married, she'd worked there for 2 years, he was a very private person, and she couldn't think of anyone who'd want to kill him. How did you get on?"

"I got one of Hogan's team to check the records," Lewis replied, "though I still can't get hold of her personally. As to Brian Cox, his wife died three years ago. They were a childless couple. And before you ask, it was natural causes – a series of strokes."

Walking in tandem, they left the hospital, and headed down to Hathaway's car. They passed most of the drive back to the station in idle chatter, mulling over various impressions of the crime scene – despite copious amounts of blood, forensics had commented on there being very little trace evidence.

"The identity on the passport was for a Miss Stephanie Davidson," Lewis told Hathaway, "it expired back in 1996… find out who she is, everything you can. The labs won't have finished with the passport itself yet, but you can at least start working out who Stephanie Davidson is, and where we can find her, even if it's only to eliminate her from enquiries."

"Do you think she's dead, sir?"

"It looks like it," Lewis nodded, sitting down at his own desk, frowning slightly, and reaching for the box of painkillers, "Hathaway, the victim and all the blood was confined to the back office – that front room was spotless. Our killer couldn't have avoided getting blood all over himself, so he must have had some protective clothing on... The front door was the only way in or out, and the lock was broken…"

"A premeditated murder, then, but taking advantage of the victim working late," Hathaway commented.

"Agreed," Lewis nodded, "which makes me think that the killer might have been stalking Brian Cox for some time. Not a random killing, but motive unknown so far… to be so careful not to get any blood outside of the office, but then to leave a blood-stained passport under the front desk…"

"Just like Simon Monkford," Hathaway commented, darkly.

"Just like Simon bastard bloody Monkford," Lewis sighed, in agreement, "I bet you fifty quid, Stephanie Davidson was murdered, and either Brian Cox did it, or he was very strongly implicated…"

* * *

The day wore on, and still there was no sign of Hogan. This was not unusual – Lewis had known his fellow Inspector to disappear for days on end when she was investigating a case, much to the consternation of her beleaguered, by-the-book Sergeant.

"Sir, I've got something," Hathaway spoke up, suddenly, "Stephanie Davidson – you were right, sir, she's dead. She died in 1991. She was murdered."

"I bloody knew it," Lewis murmured, "Go on…"

"She was a student here, but she dropped out…" Hathaway summarised, reading from a paper file, skimming through it quickly; "she was working as a waitress in a restaurant, when she suddenly disappeared one day. Everyone thought that she'd run away, until her body turned up in the back of a half-burned out car in a field off the A4144 Abingdon Road. She'd been raped and strangled – it looked like the killer had tried to torch the car to hide the evidence, but didn't do a good job – the fire burned out, doused by heavy rain. She had no next of kin according to this."

"And Brian Cox?"

"He was the chief suspect," Hathaway confirmed, "Did you come up with much?"

"Not really," Lewis shook his head, winced, raised his hand to his temple, and sighed before he continued; "he opened the estate agency ten years ago, after returning to Oxford from a nine-year spell in America… which means that he would have left Oxford around the time that Stephanie was murdered, but that could just be coincidental. His tax records are immaculate, he's never been arrested, he's never even had a parking ticket, he's never sued anyone or been sued, and he's never been declared bankrupt."

Lewis leaned back in his chair, running his hands through his hair, deep in thought. He had removed the bandage from the back of his head, but the wound was still swollen and tender, and he was careful not to touch it.

"You carry on with the files," he said, at last, "I'm going to talk to Dr Hobson… and then, I might have to go and see the Chief Super…"

"Good luck, sir," Hathaway replied, with a smirk.

"Aye – I'm going to bloody need it."

* * *

However, Lewis, unwilling to admit to feeling under the weather, spent another couple of hours at the office mulling over the two cases, before he got a call from Dr Hobson, summoning him to the city morgue. Leaving Hathaway to the paper files, he decided to drive his own car. He negotiated the traffic with practiced ease, but when he arrived, he had to sit in the vehicle for a few minutes, willing the ache in his head and ribs to subside. Eventually, he got out of the car, and made his way down to the pathology labs. Dr Hobson met him with a smile, and led him inside.

"How are you feeling today?" she asked, as she led him down to the morgue, pulling open one of the refrigerator drawers.

"A hell of a lot better than he is," Lewis quipped, nodding towards the corpse.

"Have you actually slept at all since the other night?"

"A bit," came the vague reply, "tell me about our victim?"

"Brian Cox bears very similar hallmarks to Simon Monkford," Hobson told him, obligingly, "he was bound and gagged with duct-tape and tortured to death with a very sharp knife. There were forty-two separate slash wounds. At first, with both victims, I thought that the attack was frenzied, but it's worse than that…"

"Worse?"

"Worse," Hobson confirmed, gazing down at the body between them, "each cut was applied slowly, methodically, and designed to cause maximum pain."

"Dear God," Lewis winced, "when did he die?"

"I'll stick with the original estimate of between two and three this morning," Hobson replied, "but the attack would have started much earlier than that – possibly at around midnight. It would probably have taken about an hour for Cox to die. Again, he had torn, broken nails – he obviously clawed at his killer before he was restrained, but yet again, there's a total lack of forensic evidence under his nails."

"We think the killer wore some kind of protective clothing while the attack was carried out," Lewis explained, "could that be the case?"

"It would explain the complete lack of forensic evidence," Hobson replied, covering the body at last and closing the drawer; "I hear you found a passport near the body?"

Lewis held open the door of the lab as she walked passed him, heading towards a vending machine in the corridor.

"Yes…" Lewis nodded, as Hobson ordered them each a cup of tea from the vending machine, "there was a bloody fingerprint over the photograph."

"On my passport, that would be an improvement," Hobson joked, "Sorry… whose passport was it?"

"A girl called Stephanie Davidson," Lewis told her, leaning against the vending machine as he drank his tea, "she was murdered in 1991. We suspect Brian Cox was either the killer, or at least the prime suspect, and somehow got away with it."

"Lewis… are you suggesting…?"

"I don't want to suggest anything just yet," the Inspector replied, with a small shake of his head, "but we've got two dead men, each of whom either were or may have been responsible for a death, found with the dead women's passports… What sort of killer are we looking for, here, do you think?"

"I'm not sure yet," Hobson replied, slowly, glancing back towards the pathology lab door behind them, "either a psychotic sadist or a furious avenger. This attack wasn't just brutal – it was calculated to cause a huge amount of pain to the victim."

"Thank you, doctor," Lewis nodded, "is there anything else that you can tell me?"

"Nothing at all, I'm afraid," she sighed, "I just hope you catch whoever did this…"

"We'll do our best."

* * *

Inspector Hogan had switched her phone off, not wanting to be disturbed, while she carried out some serious leg-work. Lewis preferred to think, Hathaway liked the methodical approach, and her own Sergeant was boringly by-the-book, but Hogan liked to be out on the streets talking to people. However, it was one of the rare occasions that her contacts had turned up very little. She had managed to turn up a few surprises, though, and was feeling slightly pleased with herself.

Now, however, she was lurking around the Lonsdale campus, as she crept into one of the lecture halls. She had never been a student, but there was one lecturer here with whom she was firm friends, and who never remarked on the Inspector appearing randomly at her lectures.

Hogan slipped in at the back and stood by the door; she had been later than she had intended, and the lecture was in full flow.

"But where does the urge to kill come from?" Professor Woodman was asking the assembled group; "Is the urge genetic? Or is it biological in origin, hormonal perhaps? Or could it be hereditary, or the result of cultural conditioning, or incited by environmental or social factors? These, and hundreds of other theories, have been bandied about by psychologists, criminologists, and dusty old academics like me for years."

There was a polite ripple of amusement at the self-deprecating humour, as Woodman paused for breath, moving her wheelchair slightly to get a better view of her audience. She saw the tall Inspector in the distinctive long black leather coat standing at the back, and could not suppress a smile. The expression was returned; Woodman knew that if Hogan was putting in an appearance, her profiling experience might well be called upon.

Concentrating on the lecture, she returned quickly to her subject; "The other interesting question in relation to motive is whether serial killers have any control over their desires… We all, from time to time, feel extreme anger, or hate, or inappropriate sexual instincts, yet most of us keep a tight check on these impulses and do not act on them – if we even consciously acknowledge them. Whatever you call this control – inhibition, morality, social conscience – any such controls are often considered not to exist in the serial killer."

Woodman awkwardly climbed out of her wheelchair with the aid of her cane, and walked in front of the assembled students and academics.

"My current theorem disagrees with this approach," she announced, "whether you agree with me is up to you, but consider this – if serial killers had no self-control, how could some of them evade capture for so long? As an interesting side note, some killers are very intelligent and have shown great promise as successful professionals. Many of them, even amongst those I have studied, are fascinated with the police and authority in general… some in particular have even attempted to join the police themselves."

A hand went up at the back, and Woodman quirked one eyebrow.

"Questions normally wait until the end," she commented, dryly.

"This one can't," Hogan replied, as heads turned in her direction, "why would a potential serial killer try to join the police?"

"An interesting question, Inspector," Woodman replied, stressing the rank for the benefit of the others in the room, "usually, it is those who kill out of some twisted sense of justice – those who go on to kill people who, to their mind, do not deserve to live. For example, I had a long series of conversations with a man out in America who, as a young man, applied to the police force. He described a powerful urge to make the world a better place by removing the unclean from the streets. His application failed because of his psychiatric history of anger management issues – a red flag that his therapist had ignored, I might add – and went on to kill fourteen prostitutes. To his mind, he was fulfilling his calling to rid the streets of the unclean… No, Hogan, if you want to know more you can wait until the end and I'll buy you that pint I owe you. Now… that leads us nicely into the topic of motives…"

* * *

Late in the afternoon, Hathaway stared at the small pile of dusty paper files on his desk, and wondered how anyone had ever coped with record-keeping before the invention of the desk-top computer. He decided to irritate Lewis with the question later. Rubbing tired eyes, he leaned back in his chair and tapped his pen thoughtfully in the desk, glancing across at the page of hand-written notes to his right. The files had made for interesting reading, but brought him no closer to finding their killer.

Suddenly, the door to the office opened, and Lewis walked in, giving him a brief nod; "Whoever our killer is, he – or she – is one vicious bastard. The evidence points to Brian Cox having been tortured before he was killed – he was slashed forty-two times with a very sharp blade before he died, and he was bound and gagged while it was happening."

"I may have found motive," Hathaway patted the pile of folders, "the investigation into the murder of Stephanie Davidson ran on for several months. During that time, Brian Cox was interviewed no less than five times. It seems he met Stephanie in a bar one night and took her home. She treated it as a one-night stand and he thought it was something more. A few of her friends accused him of stalking her – it seems the investigating officer thought that he was the prime suspect, but there was a distinct lack of evidence. He was never formally arrested or charged."

"I think I remember the case… Who was the investigating officer?" Lewis asked, with interest.

"Inspector Haskins," Hathaway supplied, "unfortunately, Inspector Haskins retired on medical grounds a few years ago. He died last year."

"Liver failure, I know," Lewis said, sadly, "poor sod. Who was his bagman at the time?"

"Bag woman, sir," Hathaway replied, with a slight smile, "A certain Detective Sergeant Hogan, I believe… I've been trying to call her, but she's dropped off the radar. She probably doesn't know about the murder of Brian Cox yet."

"She sent me a text," Lewis held up his phone and then dropped it into his jacket pocket, "of all things, she wants us to meet her in a pub car park in an hour's time."

"I don't get paid enough to go out drinking with you two on a regular basis," Hathaway commented, "I'm going to need a bigger expenses budget."

"Drinking with me and Hogan, you're going to need bloody life insurance..."

* * *

Hogan hung back at the end of the lecture, as Woodman dealt with a few questions from students. She dismissed them all quickly, inviting them to a post-lecture discussion in her office the next morning.

"Do you mind if we go to my office?" Woodman asked, as Hogan approached, "I could really do with a cup of tea…"

"Just what I was going to suggest," Hogan responded, "come on, sit – I know the way."

Woodman obligingly sat down in her wheelchair, and Hogan pushed it out of the lecture theatre. They exchanged idle small talk, until they were safely enclosed in Woodman's spacious office.

"They've upgraded you since I was last here," Hogan commented, staring at the book-filled shelves and the large armchairs dominating the centre of the room.

"Only because I make the college a lot of money," Woodman commented, climbing out of her chair and limping over to the kettle, "the public thirst for the macabre will never be quenched…"

"And nor will mine, or yours," Hogan shot back, giving the globe in the corner an idle spin, "listen, I… I need to run something past you…"

Woodman poured two mugs of tea, and held one out. Hogan accepted it, and, flicking her coat to one side, she perched in one of the armchairs. Woodman settled into her usual seat, eyeing Hogan.

"We go back a long way, you and I," Woodman said, at last, "and I can't remember the last time I saw you so rattled by a case."

Hogan gave a snort of a laugh; "The man who was killed was responsible for the death of the wife of a very good friend of mine… well, they were both friends of mine, really…"

"Simon Monkford," Woodman nodded, sipping hot tea, "Mm, yes. I read about it in the local newspaper. I had a feeling there were a few omitted details – there usually are. You are referring to Inspector Lewis's wife?"

"Do you know Lewis?"

"No, I've never had that pleasure," Woodman smiled; "I should very much like to meet the man responsible for the capture of Jeremy Jackson…"

"Another time, perhaps," Hogan said, holding up a cautionary hand, "okay… here are the omitted details…"

She described the killing of Simon Monkford in detail, as Woodman listened. When Hogan had finished, Woodman was frowning, deep in thought.

"Come back and see me tomorrow," she said, at length, "I need time to think about this one… I'll sketch out a profile for you."

"Thanks," Hogan stood, "I'll drop by when I can… I'll see you then."

With a final wave and a flick of her coat, she was gone. Woodman smiled to herself, leaned back in her chair, closed her eyes, and began to think.

* * *

It was dark when Lewis and Hathaway arrived in the car park at the Grapevine pub. Hathaway parked his car in the spot next to Hogan's four-by-four, next to which she was stood waiting for them.

"You're late," she told them.

"And you're hard to keep track of," Lewis told her, as he struggled to get out of the car, "There's been another murder – we've been working on that all day."

"Brian Cox," Hogan nodded, "yeah, Hathaway e-mailed me, I picked it up on my phone. I was… making enquiries. I've got something for you."

"For me?"

Hogan, by the light of the street lamps, was grinning slightly, looking pleased with herself, as she walked around to the back of her car.

"I told you my informants were good," she said, "no-body knows anything about the murders or the break-in at your house, but I do know that the burglary was a front. The bastard who turned your place over did so with the sole intention of stealing Val's passport to place it, very deliberately, at the Monkford crime scene."

"We figured as much, but how can you be sure?" Lewis asked.

Hogan opened the boot of her car, and gestured to a large box, covered by a red tartan blanket. Lewis stepped forward, frowning. Hogan made an 'after-you" gesture, so Lewis grabbed the blanket, and pulled it to one side. Gaping at what was revealed, his aching head and ribs forgotten, he turned to look at Hogan, who was grinning openly.

"My record player!" he exclaimed, "Where the hell was it?"

"Oh…" Hogan put her hands in her pockets, rocking back and forth on her heels, "it turned up in a little electrical goods shop one of my informants uses to fence stolen goods – except he didn't nick it. He found it dumped with a TV and a DVD player in a box by a skip, about three streets from your place. I'm sorry – the TV and the DVD were sold, and I couldn't get enough information out of the guy to find out where they went…"

"They're replaceable," Lewis said, a little distantly, as he reached out to touch the black casing reverently, "Hogan, I… well…"

"Thank me with a pint," Hogan told him, waving off any further comment, "Don't even think about trying to lift it, not with your ribs – the bloody thing weighs a ton!"

Between the two of them, Hogan and Hathaway lifted the record player into the back of Hathaway's car, covering it with the parcel shelf from the boot. They wandered inside the pub, where Hogan bought three points of the house ale. The pub was busy, but Hogan crossed to a table occupied by two men. One of them looked up at her, and went white.

"Shift it, Johnny, before I remember why I was going to nick you the next time I saw you," she told him.

The two men disappeared, as the three officers took their seats.

"My research says that you worked on the Stephanie Davidson case, sir," Hathaway said, to Hogan, "with Inspector Haskins… I understand Brian Cox was your prime suspect?"

"Aye, I remember the case," Hogan leaned her left elbow on the arm of her chair, cradling the pint glass in her right hand, "you always remember the ones that get away… the same as Monkford?"

"Tied up and tortured to death," Lewis confirmed, keeping his voice low, mindful of their very public setting, "the attack was pretty vicious, and meticulously planned. We found Stephanie Davidson's passport at the scene."

Hathaway watched, slightly disapprovingly, as Lewis took two painkillers from the bottle in his pocket, and washed them down with a mouthful of the beer.

"Really?" Hogan quirked an eyebrow, "Did you pull up all the evidence logs? We cleared virtually all of her personal possessions from her flat; I would have thought that the passport would be amongst them…"

"I'll check the records," Hathaway said, "It's taking a long time for some of the files to come up from the archive… however did you cope with archiving before computers, sir?"

Lewis growled something under his breath, as Hogan grinned; "The sergeants took care of it. Think of yourself as carrying on that grand tradition, James."

"Oh, cheers," Hathaway raised his glass in an ironic salute.

"So what were your impressions on our victim?" Lewis asked, after taking a long draught from his own pint, "Back then, I mean."

"It was over nineteen years ago, Lewis," Hogan said, reprovingly, "I was still a bit of a rookie at the time, not long after that business with Jeremy Jackson…"

"…Don't remind me," Lewis interrupted, holding up his hand, "one psychotic killer is enough for me to be thinking about at the moment."

"Agreed…" Hogan nodded, a dark look flickering across her face at the memory, "Anyway, I was Inspector Haskin's wingman at the time… poor old bastard, he was a drunk, even back then. Of course, if anyone else had said that, I'd probably have decked them," she flashed a quick grin, "we knew it was Cox that killed that poor girl, some jealous argument or something. He'd been seen following her, going to the clubs she always went to, that kind of thing. We just couldn't prove his whereabouts on the night that she was killed. There were no eyewitnesses, and he swore blind he'd been at home, alone, in bed."

"What did the forensics say?" Hathaway asked, curiously, "I'm still waiting for that file as well…"

"I can't remember that there was that much," Hogan shrugged, "the car was burnt out, for the most past, and what hadn't burnt had been soaked – it rained heavily that night, as I recall – that's what put the fire out, I think. You'd have to check the reports. I seem to recall that Cox was… odd, in a way. A nice guy who was trying a little bit too hard to be likable, if you know what I mean."

"You've been through the information that we've got," Lewis glanced across at Hathaway, "was there anyone close to Stephanie who might have gone in for the way of revenge? Though I find it hard to believe there would be any connection between her and our Val…"

"She had no next of kin to speak of," Hathaway pulled out his notepad, flicking through it, "her parents died when she was nineteen, a car crash I think. She had no steady boyfriend, and only a handful of friends in the Oxford area, none particularly close."

"Dead ends, wherever we look," Lewis sighed, "okay. What about the fingerprint?"

"It came back as an exact match to Brian Cox," Hathaway replied, "the killer must have done it…"

"A signature?" Lewis guessed, "A marker of Brian Cox's guilt in Stephanie's death?"

"The same as Simon Monkford and Val," Hogan commented, darkly, with a growl of frustration; "I don't like the way this is going…"

"Me neither, but any leads would be helpful at the moment – if this killer has killed before, I want to know about it," Lewis remarked, drained his pint, and then said; "In the meantime, we're supposed to be off duty – who wants another?"

"Should you be drinking on those painkillers?" Hathaway asked, carefully, eyeing his boss.

Lewis grimaced, but nodded; "Point taken… maybe we should call it a night, meet up again first thing in the morning at the station…"

"I've got an appointment," Hogan told them, "but I'll catch up with you later…"

"Aye," Lewis nodded, "Come on, Hathaway, drink up, man."

Hathaway sighed, downed the last of the ale, and shuddered at the bitterness, as Hogan laughed; "You'd better drive, Lewis – I think that's gone straight to his head, the poor love!"


	5. Chapter 5

Despite Hogan's suggestion, Hathaway elected to drive the car; Lewis had found that prescription painkillers and strong ale were not a good combination, and was struggling to keep his eyes open.

"At least you might sleep well tonight, sir," Hathaway joked, but gave him a concerned glance.

"Ah, I've still got some tidying up to do," Lewis yawned.

Hathaway drove through Oxford, into the residential areas, and eventually pulled up on the driveway of Lewis's little maisonette. However, as Lewis went to get out of the car, Hathaway grabbed his arm, and pointed to the window.

"Sir – did you leave a light on this morning?" he asked, urgently.

"No, I…" Lewis trailed off, "Oh, God – not again, surely?"

Wordlessly, Hathaway opened the car door, and stepped out, closing the door as quietly as possible. Lewis did the same, and approached the front door. It was partially open, and Lewis pointed at it.

"Hogan was last out," he whispered, "I saw her close and lock this with the spare keys this morning…"

"Did you have more than one spare set?" Hathaway's voice was a breath in his ear from behind him.

"Aye – two sets; one spare, and one for our Lynne whenever she comes to stay," Lewis replied, quietly, referring to his daughter's rare visits to Oxford.

He pushed the door open and stepped inside, Hathaway at his heels as they crept down the corridor, emerging into the open plan kitchen and living area. A single lamp stood on the dining table, switched on, and there was an envelope propped up against it. Lewis noted it, but between them they checked each of the other rooms before coming back to the living room.

"The spare keys are gone," Lewis sighed, "Hogan gave me back the set she took back in the pub…"

"You'll have to get the locks changed, sir," Hathaway noted.

Lewis made a non-committal noise, reached into his inside pocket, and pulled out the ever-present pair of latex gloves he carried for handling evidence. He took a seat at the dining table, and Hathaway sat down opposite to him, as Lewis pulled on the gloves and picked up the envelope.

"Shouldn't we get that to forensics, sir?" asked Hathaway, cautiously.

"We don't know what it is yet," Lewis pointed out.

He picked the envelope up and examined it closely. It was not sealed, so he pulled out the flap of paper. Inside, he found a sheet of white paper. Pulling it out, he unfolded it, and stared at it. Hathaway watched as Lewis went a shade whiter than the paper he held, even by the light of the lamp, and the gloved hand that held the paper shook slightly.

"What does it say?" Hathaway broke the silence at last, "Sir… what does it say?"

Lewis tossed the paper onto the table, towards Hathaway. Without touching it, the Sergeant leaned over the table, and was chilled to the bone by the message it contained.

* * *

"Honestly, Lewis, can you go one night this week without disturbing me for something," Hogan complained, striding into the office, "I was in the middle of a bloody good bottle of Speckled Hen and a takeaway pizza."

"Read this," Hathaway tossed her the evidence bag that contained the letter.

Hogan picked it up and read it aloud; "_What I do, I do in the name of justice. I have chosen the guilty, and they will pay for their crimes. And you, who stood idly by, shall have your own reward_. Wow. Is this some kind of threat?"

She reached inside her coat, and from one of the pockets, produced an open, half-empty bottle of ale. Lewis raised an eyebrow as she took a drink from it and set it down on his desk.

"What?" she commented, "I said I was half-way through it – I didn't say I'd left it at home."

"Any chance you've got the rest of the pizza in one of those pockets of yours, sir?" Hathaway quipped.

Hogan laughed, and then wafted the note at Lewis; "You, my dear fellow, appear to be receiving fan mail…"

"The implication that there may be more bothers me," Lewis said, dropping heavily into his chair with a pained groan, "someone broke into my house to steal Val's passport, and Stephanie Davidson's may have gone missing from the evidence logs…"

"Which is the part that I don't like the sound of, sir," Hathaway commented, "it couldn't have been taken recently…"

"Agreed," Hogan nodded, typing something into her phone, "err… I assume we're going to be here for a while… I'm ordering some more pizza online, what do you fancy…?"

* * *

Lewis, Hathaway and Hogan spent the night pawing through all of the old files and evidence boxes that Hathaway had brought up from the archive with regards to the Stephanie Davidson murder. There were no files in relation to the investigation into the death of Val Lewis; that information rested with the London police force that had handled the matter.

"Her passport was definitely taken into evidence," Hathaway announced, at last, "it is listed on the evidence log, but it's not here."

Hogan was sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall, empty pizza box to one side, empty beer bottle on the other, and a file open on her lap. She was fast asleep. Lewis was sitting at his desk, and he glanced up when Hathaway spoke.

"Is anything else missing?" Lewis leaned back in his chair, appreciating the chance to take a break. His head was pounding, and the painkillers were barely taking the edge off.

"A couple of photographs and a personal diary," Hathaway replied, quickly, "they all seem to have been lost in transit – the evidence has been moved around between various stations and lock-ups."

"Or it was deliberately taken," Lewis sighed and ran a hand through his hair, wincing when he inadvertently touched the lump on the back of his head; "But that doesn't bear thinking about."

"Anything in the files, sir?"

"Not much," Lewis shook his head, and then held a hand to his temple with a gasp, regretting the movement. Waving off Hathaway's concerned look, he continued; "Forensics are as sketchy as Hogan said, and any witness evidence is from hours before she was killed. Brian Cox was the only suspect, but Inspector Haskins couldn't find enough evidence to pin on him. Keep looking."

* * *

Time dragged on, and as more files and evidence came out of the boxes, the office slowly descended into a chaos of papers and paraphernalia. Several hours later, both Lewis and Hathaway found themselves sitting on the floor of the office with Hogan – the rest of the floor, and every other available surface, was covered with paperwork and old evidence bags, and the three of them sat in the middle of it, as if in the eye of a storm of paperwork. Any semblance of order was destroyed, however, when the door was flung open, and the draught swept through the room, tossing paperwork everywhere in its wake.

"We do provide you with perfectly good desks, you know," Chief Superintendent Innocent told them, dryly, as Hathaway leapt to his feet. Lewis got up much more slowly, a pained expression on his face, while Hogan stayed on her knees, as Innocent continued; "And very expensive ergonomically designed chairs to go with them."

"All very much appreciated, ma'am," Lewis responded, suppressing a yawn, "Was there something we can help you with?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact there is, Lewis," Innocent put her hands on her hips, craning her neck slightly to look up at him, "you can tell me why you're investigating a murder that took place in 1991 while two corpses, each only a day or so old, is lying virtually untouched in the morgue?"

"Hogan thinks that whoever killed Brian Cox and Simon Monkford knew Stephanie Davidson, and possibly, though I hate to say it, my wife," Lewis responded, grimly, "The theory is that whoever killed Cox and Monkford did so as a revenge for their victims, and they left the passports behind as a signature. But I can't think of any of Val's friends who would be capable of something like this…"

"Someone gained access to Lewis's flat last night, and left him this," Hogan handed up the note, finally getting to her feet, "we've got a problem, Jean – there are going to be more killings."

"Have you spoken to Woodman, Alenna? If we've got nothing forensically, then may psychologically…"

"I have. I'm seeing her again this morning," Hogan confirmed, and, at Lewis's questioning look, she explained; "Professor Woodman, Lonsdale College. She's a leading mind in the field of criminological psychology, and she is well published matters relating to murder and serial killings."

"I've heard of her," Lewis confirmed, "Morse rated her quite highly, I think."

"It wouldn't surprise me," Hogan nodded, "she consults fairly regularly with the police – I think she was a little bit put out that you caught Jeremy Jackson without her input, but then again, she was working in America at the time…"

"Give her all of the information she asks for," Innocent told her, "the woman's a bloody genius, so if there's anything else that she can tell us, I want to know. Do any of you have any good news for me?"

There was a long moment of silence.

"Inspector Lewis got his record player back, ma'am," Hathaway offered.

"Oh, well, that is good news," Innocent replied, dryly, "Hogan had already reported that the burglary was a front for obtaining the passport – stealing the record player et cetera was a smokescreen."

"Yes. Unfortunately, they left the records," Hathaway quipped.

"Well, that's just good taste," Innocent rejoined.

Hathaway and Hogan both smirked, as Lewis leaned back against his desk, sighed, and rubbed his eyes tiredly. Innocent cocked her head to one side, adopting a look of amused tolerance.

"How's the head?"

"Sore. But then again, someone once told me I'd got a skull like an anvil…" Lewis half-smiled at the memory, winced, and glanced back down at the papers strewn everywhere; "There's a clue here somewhere, I know there is."

"So you think Brian Cox's killer waited nearly nineteen years to take revenge with regard to Stephanie, and killed Monkford as well?" Innocent quirked an eyebrow, "that's an extremely cold dish to be served in the first case and a great coincidence in the second…"

"I'm not sure that the killer did know the victims," Lewis replied, vaguely, "the note implies that the killer is avenging, not revenging…" He walked around the desk and dropped into his chair, putting one hand to his temple, quoting the note again; "What I do, I do in the name of justice. I have chosen the guilty, and they will pay for the crimes. And you who stood idly by shall have your own rewards…"

"That part… 'I have chosen the guilty'," Hathaway repeated, "what do you suppose that means?"

"It means that unless we find out who's doing this, more people are going to die," Lewis replied, reached for the painkillers on his desk, and then thought better of it with Innocent in the room; "It seems to me that someone is murdering people who are guilty of killing others… and if our killer is going as far back as the 1990's, well…"

"No comment on the Oxford PD success rate," Hathaway said, "but that could be a hell of a lot of people, sir."

"It's still a select group of people," Innocent told them, pushing an empty pizza box to one side with her foot, a look of disdain on her face; "what about the part about 'you who stood idly by'… could this be personal, Lewis?"

"I don't know, ma'am," he replied, trying unsuccessfully to cover up a yawn with his bandaged hand, "I doubt it… I wasn't involved in the investigations of either matter, as I recall."

Innocent eyed them all, and the pizza boxes on the floor; "Have you three been at this all night?"

"Yes. Any chance of overtime?"

"No, Alenna, there is not," Innocent replied, folding her arms.

"The passports are our lead," Lewis said, ignoring the sniping between the two women, "our Val's was stolen from my house, and Stephanie's, well… It's not fake… it was stolen, taken from our own evidence logs… and that fact alone definitely warrants investigation."

Innocent opened her mouth, closed it again, and sighed; "Very well. But it's just the three of you working this angle, right? Hogan, publicly, you stick to the Simon Monkford murder, and Lewis, you take Brian Cox. Let the media think that they are separate cases, and keep the passport details under wraps. And as far as the Davidson matter is concerned, know this: I'm not wasting any more resources on a cold case!"

"Nice to know we have your full support, ma'am," Lewis muttered, as the DCS turned her back and slammed the door behind her. He flinched at the loud noise, and let loose a breath he didn't realise he'd been holding. Hathaway gave him a sympathetic look, and they both jumped when the mobile phone on Lewis's desk rang loudly. He snatched it up, cradling it to his ear with his good hand, gingerly nursing his head with the other.

"Lewis. Aye. Address?"

Reaching around, Lewis snatched up a pen and scribbled something down on a notepad; "We'll be there in about ten minutes."

He snapped the 'phone shut, and dropped it into his jacket pocket. He tossed the notepad towards Hathaway, who caught it deftly.

"There's a dead body been found in a garage in Blackbird Leys," Lewis told him, quickly, snatching up the painkillers and dropping the box in his pocket, "Apparently, a passport was found at the scene. Hobson's on her way. You're driving. Let's go."

* * *

Hathaway drove with maximum speed and maximum care, occasionally casting a glance across at Lewis. The older man looked pale and drawn, and was very obviously suffering from the mother of all headaches. The address took them to a quiet side street far from the centre of Oxford, to the rear of which there was a row of garages. Hathaway pulled up at the edge of the crime scene tape, turning off the engine, already observing all the details of the scene around them. Lewis took a deep, steadying breath, and got out of the car.

"Right, what have we got?" Lewis demanded, of the nearest uniformed sergeant.

"Woman's body in the garage, sir," the man reported, quickly, "a neighbour saw the blood running from under the door and called it in. Not a pretty sight, sir."

"They never are," Lewis took another deep breath, and headed into the garage.

Two white-uniformed SOCOs were already crawling around on the floor of the garage, where Dr. Hobson was on her knees next to the body. At first, all Lewis could see was the blood. A wave of dizziness hit him, but he held it together, and met Hobson's gaze.

"Woman, early thirties," Hobson reported, pulling her surgical mask down briefly, "multiple stab and slash wounds. She died sometime during the night, I'd say at around two o'clock this morning. She was restrained with tape, as you can see, and we found this…"

Hobson nodded to one of the forensics team, who held a plastic bag out towards him. Lewis accepted the bag, blinking his eyes into focus. The bag contained a passport, open at the identity page. Staring at it, Lewis felt his blood run cold.

Over the photograph, there was a clear impression of a fingerprint in blood.

* * *

"From the information that you've given me, your killer doesn't know either his victims, or their victims," Professor Woodman said, "not personally, at least… but he empathises with them, very strongly – the victims of his victims, I mean."

She was sitting, reclined in her armchair, a blanket thrown over her legs. Hogan was pacing up and down the room restlessly.

"He's killing people responsible for the deaths of others," Woodman continued, as Hogan growled a curse under her breath; "I haven't seen a case quite like it, but it's not outside the realms of possibility. I would suspect that either someone close to him was killed, and their killer seemed to his mind to go unpunished, or else he sees himself as an avenger, someone on a mission to balance the scales of justice for the victims whose killers walked free."

"I can tell most of that from the evidence," Hogan responded, glancing over her shoulder at the Professor, "tell me what sort of man I'm looking for."

"He is highly organised," Woodman told her, "initially, at least – he organises up to the point of killing, but makes no effort to hide or dispose of the body. He – because in all likelihood it is a man – is probably very quiet, respectable, and single. He might have once applied to the police force…"

"…He may have been with the police," Hogan said, grimly, "one of the passports we found with the victim was probably taken from our lock-up years ago."

"Really?" Woodman raised an eyebrow, "Fascinating… in that case, you really do have a problem. Your man may have been collecting passports, perhaps as mementos of failed cases, not always his own. He may not have been particularly high-ranking, either. He kept the passports – or other mementos – for years, while his rage at the injustice grew and grew… so, perhaps idly at first, he began to plan the murders. In great detail, I suspect. However, there was a trigger, some event, something that touched him deeply and sent him over the edge…"

Woodman took a local newspaper from the table beside her and tossed it towards Hogan, who caught it easily, shaking it open. Woodman had folded it open to an article about Monkford's release on a suspended sentence.

"The thought that a senior police officer had allowed his own wife's killer to go virtually unpunished might have done it…" Woodman said, quietly, "be careful, Ally – the note that you told me about implies your killer might not just target the killers involved… he'll be targeting 'those who stood idly by'…"

"The investigating officers and those close to the matter," Hogan nodded, "Christ, that could be any of us."

"I'll e-mail you a full report as soon as I can," Woodman promised, "If you'll send me as much information as possible and keep me advised of any updates?"

"I will. All the usual disclaimers apply…"

"Of course," Woodman waved her hand, "I won't publish anything or talk to the press until I get the go-ahead from you."

"Cheers," Hogan nodded, "Look, I'd better go – Jean's on my back for results on this one."

"I'm not surprised," smiled Woodman, "Give her my best and tell her we've all got to go for dinner or something soon – I need to get out more!"

"Will do," Hogan promised, "take care, of yourself, okay?"

With that, she turned, and swept out of the room.

* * *

Several hours later, Lewis, Hobson and Hathaway convened at the pathology lab. The woman's body lay on the table, modesty protected by a sheet, face exposed. She had shoulder length brown hair, and her face was heavily lined.

"Do we know who she is?" he asked, resisting the urge to massage his temples, wanting nothing more than to go and lie down in a darkened room.

"Her name is Natalie Houghton," Hathaway replied, quietly, "we identified her from her fingerprints. You're not going to like this, sir."

"Oh, aye, because I've been loving it so far," Lewis commented, bitterly, placing a hand on the back of his head, wondering if it would ever stop throbbing, "Go on, then. Break it to me gently."

"The passport that was found with the body belonged to a woman called Ayesha Chohan," Hathaway told them, keeping his voice low, "Chohan was murdered in 1986, apparently strangled with a length of garden twine. Houghton was arrested and charged with the crime, but a lack of evidence and a good defence counsel meant that the jury found her not guilty. She was released immediately. It was Houghton's fingerprint on Chohan's passport."

Lewis, if anything, went a shade whiter; "God… I think I remember that case. Chief Inspector Bell, right? One of my first cases on joining CID…"

Hobson gestured towards the back office; "Come on," she said, "we'd better go and sit down before you fall down."

She ushered them through and Lewis sat down gratefully. Hobson came up behind him, gently nudging his head forward.

"There's really no need…" he began.

"Oh, shush," Hobson scolded him, "if you're too stubborn to let any other doctor have a look, you can at least let me check the stitches."

Lewis acquiesced, and Hobson talked as she worked; "Your victim had forty-one separate stab and slash wounds, in a virtually identical manner to Simon Monkford and Brian Cox… good grief, Lewis, look at the state of this! …Anyway, as I said, she died at around two o'clock this morning, but my guess is that the attack took place over the course of an hour – there was clotting in some of the shallower, earlier cuts. She was definitely tortured, but again, she was gagged with duct-tape so she couldn't scream. I went all over her skin, cleaned her nails and combed through her hair, but again, there was no trace evidence whatsoever…"

Hobson stepped back, giving Lewis a gentle pat on the shoulder; "Get home and get some sleep. As I was saying, there was no trace evidence at all. Now, if he had scraped her nails clean or washed her hands, there would have been marring in the bloodstains. There is bruising and evidence of a struggle, but once he bound her hands there's nothing to suggest he cleaned her nails at all, which means that if she clawed at him she didn't pick up any trace evidence at all – no clothing, no skin, no hair, no fibres, nothing."

"How is that possible?" Lewis frowned, resting his head in the palm of his hand, willing the dizziness to subside. He was still feeling the effects of the concussion, exhaustion, and the drowsiness induced by his painkillers. Only adrenaline and coffee were keeping him going.

"You suggested that the killer was wearing protective clothing," Hobson shrugged, "I'd say that was a foregone conclusion – something plastic, rubber, or even leather – something designed not to shed any fibres, something easily put on and removed again…"

"Like a scene suit," there was a dark note in Hathaway's voice.

Lewis slowly raised his head, and looked at the Sergeant. It was clear that they were both thinking along the same lines. Hobson looked at each of them in turn.

"As cute as your non-verbal communication is, would you like to let me in on the secret?" she asked, folding her arms.

"Stephanie Davidson's passport was in police evidence," Hathaway said, slowly, "Ayesha Chohan's probably was as well…"

"Check it," Lewis told him, hoarsely, "I am not going down that route until we've got firm evidence, got it?"

"What route?" Hobson frowned, "Robbie, speaking as a doctor, you really need to go home and get some rest. You look done in."

"Laura," Lewis gave her a grey-faced look, even as his mind played through all the possible scenarios, "If it emerges that Chohan's passport disappeared from evidence, like Stephanie Davidson's, along with the implication that the killer may have worn a scene-suit and has a detailed knowledge of forensics…"

"Oh, dear God," Hobson put her hand to her mouth as the full force of the implications hit her, "you can't be serious. Nobody on the force… or associated with it… could be capable of this."

"Let's hope you're right," replied Lewis, grimly.


	6. Chapter 6

Hours crept by. Hathaway made a personal visit down to the archive to chivvy along a sleepy-eyed night-time porter, who grumbled the whole time about reasons why the matter could have waited until the morning. Collecting the boxes, Hathaway took everything to the office, where he and Lewis began the arduous task of sifting through everything. Some time after four o'clock in the morning, Hathaway finally found the evidence log he had been looking for. He suppressed a whoop of delight, settling instead for a relieved sigh.

Relief quickly turned to dismay. Ayesha Chohan's passport had indeed been logged into evidence. However, the names of the last three file handlers had been completely obliterated by something having been spilt onto the record, bleeding the ink into the page beyond recognition. Snatching up the evidence list from the Stephanie Davidson case, Hathaway noted that the page had been torn, effectively removing the names of half of the people who had signed out the box of evidence – the records were now computerised, so his name appeared on a computer log. A quick check of the system told him that on these two cold cases, the previous list had not been transcribed into the computer. He therefore had no idea who had previously had this evidence, over a decade ago.

He opened his mouth to say something to Lewis, but, glancing across, he noticed with an amused smirk that the older man had fallen asleep at his desk. Lewis was slumped in his chair, head propped up in his right hand, his bandaged left hand hanging limply over the arm-rest. Hathaway decided to continue reading through the old evidence files to see if he could deduce who last person to handle the evidence might have been. Leaning back in his chair, he put his feet up on the desk, and opened the first of the files.

* * *

It seemed like no time at all when the door was flung open with a loud crash. Hathaway jumped awake with a start, dropping papers all over the floor as a cramp in his leg made him yelp, jerking his feet to the floor and sitting up quickly as Innocent strode into the room, glancing around quickly. Lewis, still dozing fitfully in his chair in drugged slumber, managed to raise his head slightly, blinking at her blearily.

"Oh, God," he groaned, "Am I dead?"

"No, but you bloody will be if you don't switch your phone on," Innocent snapped, folding her arms and glaring down at him, "have you spoken to Hogan yet? I've been trying to call you for the past hour."

Hathaway glanced surreptitiously at the wall clock – it had just gone eight in the morning. Innocent tapped her foot impatiently; "Well?"

Lewis managed to sit up a little, closed his eyes, swallowed hard, and leaned back in his chair, scrubbing one hand across his eyes. Hathaway noticed that he was looking extremely pale, with dark circles under his eyes. His jacket was cast over the back of his chair, tie loosened, collar unfastened and shirt rumpled.

"Sorry, ma'am," Lewis said, at last, in a hoarse voice, "what was the question?"

"Good grief, you two," Innocent looked appalled, "have you been here all night again? Another cold case? If you think I'm going to give you today off to recover, you can forget it!"

Lewis and Hathaway exchanged a quick look of dismay, as Innocent continued; "Lewis; have you spoken to Inspector Hogan? She was meant to get in touch with you about the passport connection on Monkford, Cox and Houghton... If you hear from her, ask her to call me. I need to speak to her. Now get these files back down to archive, and try working on something a little more up to date, will you?"

Innocent stalked out of the office and slammed the door behind her, making Hathaway jump and Lewis flinch. There was a long moment of silence; Hathaway yawned and tried to rub sleep from his eyes, as Lewis leaned back in his chair, eyes closed.

"How's the head?" Hathaway asked, eventually.

"Fine," Lewis replied, with a yawn, his voice sounding slightly fuzzy, "I've had hangovers that were worse than this. What was that about Hogan?"

"No idea, sir," Hathaway shrugged, as Lewis cracked one eye open to look at him, "shall I fetch some tea?"

"That's probably the most sensible thing you've ever said."

Hathaway smirked, and fetched the tea, watching as Lewis swallowed more painkillers. Perching on the edge of Lewis's desk, Hathaway sipped his tea and handed over a file, quickly recounting his findings of the previous night.

"…So the records have all been virtually destroyed, and in both cases the passports have somehow been removed from the evidence logs," Hathaway finished, as Lewis listened carefully.

"I don't like the way this is going," Lewis responded, grimly, "everything points to those passports having been removed by a police officer – one of us! Who else would be able to get hold of the passports, know the suspects involved, and be familiar enough with the procedures?"

He broke off, glaring at the far wall, as his mind raced; "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"A vigilante cop – or even ex-cop – is hunting down cold case offenders and killing off the prime suspect?" Hathaway hazarded, "It's a bit far-fetched sir – insane."

"How else does our killer get hold of the passports of our victims apparent victims?" Lewis asked, despair in his voice, "Come on; we need to speak to our erstwhile commander…"

* * *

Innocent stared at them in revulsion.

"You realise what you're saying, don't you?" she demanded, at length, "that there's a murderer – probably a former officer – out on the streets, killing the prime suspects in old murder cases?"

"We're running searches of national databases to see if anything similar crops up," Lewis said, his voice and expression grim, "whoever is doing this had access to the evidence logs, that's for sure – it's no coincidence that both passports are missing, and that our victims were the prime suspects in each case."

Innocent folded her arms, took a deep breath, and nodded slowly; "Agreed. But I'm not leaping to conclusions without evidence. Do not divulge this theory to anyone else – not to forensics, not to other officers, and definitely not to the media, understood?"

"Understood, ma'am," Lewis nodded, tiredly, "I'm going to need to pull up a lot of records, though – it's going to take some time to plough through all the people who were involved in the matters."

"Alright," Innocent sighed, glancing across at Hathaway, "but it's just you two, okay? Just you two – I can't spare anyone else."

"What about Inspector Hogan, ma'am?" Hathaway asked.

"When she turns up, I'll point her in your direction," Innocent said, sharply, "in the meantime… well, for God's sake, just get on with it. And don't take this the wrong way, but I seriously hope you're wrong."

"So do I," Lewis muttered, as they turned to go, "but something tells me I'm not."

* * *

By lunchtime, the office that Lewis and Hathaway shared looked more like the archives than the actual archives. There were boxes and files stacked up against the walls and windows and piled on every available surface. However, after only a couple of hours, both men had realised that ploughing through the old files was not going to tell them very much. Instead, Hathaway was running several computer searches for similar cases, and Lewis was reading through some of the files half-heartedly. From somewhere, Hathaway had found an ice-pack, which Lewis had pressed to the back of his head.

Suddenly, the door was flung open with a loud crash, and Lewis visibly flinched; "Bloody hell, can't anyone knock anymore?"

"Yes, but the entrance is nowhere near as dramatic," Hogan shot back, sweeping into the room and grinning down at him.

"Where the hell have you been? Innocent's been asking after you."

Hogan recounted the discussion that she had had with Professor Woodman that morning, including the theory that the killer was, in all likelihood, and ex-officer who had been planning the crimes for years.

"We figured as much… But these are old cases, Hogan – why strike now?"

"Revenge being dish best served cold, and whatnot?" she shrugged, "That's a question to ask our killer, when we find him – and at the moment, every cop over the age of forty-five is probably a suspect, and that includes you and me."

"Does that mean I should put you both in handcuffs and throw you in a cell?" Hathaway joked.

"Hah! You never know, we might enjoy it," Hogan smirked, "How about it, Lewis – you and me and a pair of handcuffs?"

"Oh, dear God," Lewis groaned, dropping the melting ice-pack onto his desk and cradling his head in his hands, "I can't take much more of this."

"Bless," Hogan gave him a look of genuine sympathy, "how's the head?"

"Fine," Lewis replied, dismissively, "I bet my flat's still a tip, though – I still haven't finished the tidying up."

"Come on," Hogan jerked her head towards the door, "I'll give you a lift home and we'll lend you a hand to finish clearing up. It'll give us somewhere a little more private to talk about our wild theories."

"Agreed – I'm sick of looking at these four walls," Lewis sighed, and got to his feet, "Coming, James?"

"Oh, yes sir. Any excuse to help you tidy your flat."

"Good lad."

Hogan simply smiled, and they followed her out of the building.

* * *

The flat was finally tidy, and the record player back in its proper place. There was still a noticeable void where the TV had been, but Lewis had put on a CD, some soft rock, which played in the background. They sat around, slowly working their way through a pot of coffee. At least, Hogan and Hathaway were – Lewis had fallen fast asleep in the armchair, feet up on the coffee table.

"I've left the computer running database searches going back over twenty-five years," Hathaway commented quietly, "Looking for all unsolved murder cases in the area, with lists of suspects and officers involved."

"That's going to be a hell of a lot of hits," Hogan murmured, "Prof. Woodman seemed to think that the officers involved could also be targets if our killer considers them in some way culpable for letting the suspects get away with their crime…"

"That helps to explain why the killer gave him such a beating the other night," Hathaway commented, gesturing towards Lewis with his mug, "I don't like it, sir. Hundreds of officers have passed through the ranks of Oxford in the last twenty-five years – any one of them could be our killer."

"I know," Hogan growled, shifting restlessly in her chair, "but it's bound to be someone who was around at the time of the Davidson and Chohan killings, someone who would remember them – confine your search between those dates for now."

"What about the Val Lewis connection? That wasn't investigated in Oxford…"

"Woodman thought that it might have been the trigger that sparked the killings," Hogan explained, "an Oxford detective letting the man who killed his own wife walk free from Court without a word of protest? Unforgivable, to our mystery avenger."

"What are we up against? A serial killer on a rampage?"

"A serial killer with a very singular focus," remarked Hogan, "normally, I'd suggest a press release warning all potential victims to be on their guard… but how do you tell people that if they killed someone they risk being murdered themselves? Some people would hail this lunatic as a hero…"

They lapsed into silence for a long moment, drinking their coffee. Eventually, Hogan stood up and stretched; "Well, I'm off. I need beer, food, and sleep – and not necessarily in that order. Can I give you a lift anywhere?"

"I think I might stay a while and keep an eye on him," Hathaway shook his head, "thank you, though, sir."

"No worries," Hogan shrugged, "give me a shout if you need anything, okay?"

"Yes, sir…"

* * *

Hogan left, as Hathaway poured another coffee. He, too, was bone tired – it seemed that since the night of the break-in at Lewis's house, some three days ago, he had barely slept. Leaning back on the settee, he put his feet up on the table, sank back into the cushions, and savoured the simple feeling of comfort.

When the front door clicked, Hathaway, already dozing, thought that it was Hogan coming back for something. It was only when a very strong arm grabbed him from behind and a foul-smelling cloth clamped over his face that he remembered that Hogan had handed back the spare keys… and that Lewis had yet to change the locks…

* * *

Lewis snapped awake was a gasp. Head reeling, he wondered what had awoken him, and then he saw the wide-eyed, terrified look on Hathaway's face. The younger man was struggling in the strong grasp of another man, who had a rag or cloth of some description clamped over the Sergeant's mouth and nose.

"Who the hell-?"

Lewis launched himself from the chair, tackling the intruder. The man was about his height but stockier, bald, with a face that spoke of being in one too many fights. That experience showed, as Lewis found himself felled by an uppercut to the jaw that sent him sprawling. The intruder flung Hathaway to the floor with a snarl of anger. Lewis levered himself up on his elbows, stunned by the turn of events.

"James!" he called out, "James, wake up!"

It was no good – Hathaway was completely unconscious, sprawled on the floor where the man had dropped him. Lewis twisted around, but the man was upon him, pinning him to the floor. He found himself begin wrestled over to lie on his front. He struggled, but his cracked ribs protesting loudly, but the other man, despite his age, was much stronger. Lewis's arms were soon bound behind his back with duct tape.

"Who are you? What are you doing?" he gasped, "And why, man?"

There was no reply, as Lewis was roughly hauled into a sitting position and thrown against the breakfast bar, winding him. He watched, helplessly, as the man bound Hathaway's wrists with tape, and then, for good measure, gagged him with tape.

"Leave him alone," Lewis growled at him, trying to keep his voice level, not wanting to betray his fear, "He's done nothing to you…"

The man glared at him; "There is no innocent blood on his hands. He will not suffer."

"What do you mean?" Lewis asked, but the man spat a curse at him.

Ripping off another length of duct tape, he roughly slapped it over Lewis's mouth, effectively gagging him. Struggling uselessly against his bonds, Lewis could only watch as the man lifted Hathaway by the arms and dragged him across the floor to the small storage cupboard in the wall. Once the Sergeant was locked inside, the man turned on Lewis, and advanced on him with fury in his eyes.

"Time to pay your debt to society, Inspector…"

* * *

_**A/N: **I have a few fics in progress at the moment where Lewis has a bit of an easier ride... because I think I've been a bit too hard on him in this one, and it's about to get a lot worse! Sorry!_

_Many thanks to those who have reviewed so far... your feedback is very much appreciated!_


	7. Chapter 7

Hogan did not, in the end, go home. She went to the office, where, taking a seat at Hathaway's desk, she found his computer was still running the database search. Groaning quietly at the number of files the computer had already flagged up, she checked the search criteria.

Typing quickly, she began to narrow and refine the search; those victims who only had UK passports; cases where there had been a definite suspect; cases within a certain date-range; cases only managed by Oxford police…

Working well into the night, she ploughed her way through the files, ever narrowing and refining, dismissing files where the investigating officers had died or emigrated… she was almost convinced that there was a connection to the police force somewhere – their killer had to have been able to obtain the passports somehow, aside from the break-in at Lewis's…

The number of files continued to decrease as she refined the search, looking for similarities between the search results and their three victims.

Feeling as if she was finally getting somewhere, Hogan was therefore extremely annoyed to be interrupted by the ringing of her phone.

"Hogan!" she snapped into it.

"Hey, boss," said the calm tones of Sergeant Michaels, "I'm sorry to disturb you at this hour but you're needed… there's been another murder, sir."

Hogan swore, colourfully, and then said; "Was there a passport at the scene?"

"Actually, boss… there are three."

"Try to get hold of… no, on second thoughts, don't bother. I'll do it. Send me the address. I'm on my way."

* * *

Lewis quickly gave up trying to struggle, after earning himself a cuff across the side of his head that made his vision swim, and sent a lance of pain through his already sore head. His assailant had hauled him to his feet, and, snatching Lewis's keys from the worktop, shoved him outside. It was morning, but the street was deserted – Lewis, with a sinking feeling, realised that most of his neighbours were out at work. Nonetheless, the man was careful. He shoved Lewis around the bag of the car, and opened the boot. Realising what the man intended, Lewis started shaking his head desperately, trying to back away.

The fist that came crashing into his face was, however, not to be argued with. Reeling, Lewis felt himself being pushed over, and he fell awkwardly into the boot. His legs were lifted in, and the boot lid slammed down with a horrible finality, leaving him in darkness.

Curled up on his side, Lewis heard the car door slam. The engine revved to life, and, as the car jerked into motion, he realised, with a sick horror, that he was probably about to die.

* * *

Hathaway awoke slowly, to find himself in pitch darkness. Panic rose as he tried to work out where he was – he felt ill and sluggish, sure side-effects of whatever sedative had been used on him. There was tape over his mouth, and his hands were bound behind his back. Taking a deep breath through his nose, he tried to get his bearings. He was slumped on a hard floor, and something uncomfortable was digging into his back. He realised that he was trapped in an impossibly tight space, and the panic redoubled. He launched himself to his feet, throwing himself forward in desperation.

Dizziness crashed into him as he did so, sending him toppling over. His own momentum carried him into a wooden surface in front of him that splintered under the impact. Hathaway fell right through it, and a number of items came tumbling down on top of him. With a groan, he forced his eyes open. Looking over his shoulder, he realised that he had been locked in the storage cupboard – he was still in Lewis's flat, at least…

A hand on his shoulder made him jump, and he tried to pull away, alarmed.

"Hathaway! Hold still, you silly bugger, it's only me – it's Hogan!"

Hathaway froze, and, sure enough, the face above him gradually came into focus. Hogan reached down, grasped the tape over his mouth, and ripped it off in one pull. Hathaway gasped, blinking rapidly as the stinging made his eyes water.

"Sorry, there's no easy way to do that," Hogan apologised, "are you hurt?"

"I… I don't think so," Hathaway replied, fuzzily, as Hogan knelt down and pulled a knife from her boot, cutting the tape that bound his wrists.

He pulled the rest of the tape free, sitting up carefully, as Hogan re-sheathed her knife.

"Does the Chief Super know you carry that?"

"She gave it to me," Hogan replied, "Can you stand?"

She offered him her hand and helped him to his feet, before guiding him to sit down on the settee. He glanced at the clock on the wall; it was just gone nine o'clock in the morning, and he groaned. Then, a thought struck him.

"Where's Inspector Lewis?" he asked, alarmed, "What happened?"

"I was hoping that you could tell me," Hogan said, bleakly, "James, there's been another murder… same as the others. Only this time, we had a witness who saw a large man leaving the victim's home late in the afternoon, around the time of death. He got into a dark blue Vauxhall and drove away. We ran the plates… it was Lewis's car. When I couldn't raise either of you, I came looking…the front door was wide open…"

"Whoever grabbed me was bloody strong," Hathaway recalled, "he grabbed me from behind, though – I didn't see his face…"

"It gets worse," Hogan told him, taking a deep breath, "the latest victim was Gary Frederickson, a man widely suspected of killing three women back in 1989. He was released without charge due to a lack of evidence. The case was investigated by Chief Inspector Morse…"

"…And the then-Sergeant Lewis," Hathaway finished for her, "wait. That look says there's more."

"I went to the scene – it was pretty brutal. There were three passports, all in the victim's hand. When I couldn't raise either of you on the phone to tell you about it, I thought it was because you'd found something, so I went back to the office," she said, "Last night, I found the results of your computer searches, and I did a bit of refining on the search parameters. This morning, while I was looking for you, I took another look at the records. I was the Sergeant involved in the Stephanie Davidson case, but I'd forgotten – Lewis sat in on a couple of the interviews with Haskins for me, I was so swamped with other work… and on the Chohan case…"

"He mentioned that it was one of the first CID cases he'd worked on," Hathaway remembered, "he said he didn't have a major role in it…"

"My God, could this be more personal than we thought?" Hogan asked, eyes wide, "Has it got something to do with a case that Robbie worked on?"

"We need to go back to the records again," Hathaway said, quickly.

He tried to get to his feet, but his balance overshot him and he pitched to his knees, head reeling. Hogan crouched beside him, putting her hand on his shoulder.

"We need to get you sorted out first," she told him, "wait there – I'll get you a glass of water."

She paused, picking up a piece of cloth from the floor. Sniffing it carefully, she pulled a face and held it at arm's length.

"Chloroform," she said, in disgust, "revolting stuff."

Hathaway nodded, wordlessly, as she went to the kitchen. He glanced at the splintered remains of the storage cupboard, and swallowed, remembering the sheer panic of the enclosed space. He wondered what had happened to Lewis, and offered up a silent prayer that his boss would be safe. Then, his eyes fell on the things that had fallen out of the cupboard with him. One object in particular stood out, a large, familiarly-shaped case. He reached out, touched the clasp, and opened it slowly.

The acoustic guitar was beautiful, and Hathaway could tell from a glance that it was old, but wonderfully maintained. The strings had been loosened for storage, but Hathaway could tell at a glance they had gone brittle with age and lack of use. However, the whole case smelled of oil and polish. Hathaway was mortified to see that one of the frets had come loose, probably when the case had fallen out of the cupboard with him.

"I never knew Inspector Lewis played guitar," he said, in a dull voice, when Hogan returned, pressing a glass of water into his hand.

"That? Good grief, I thought he'd gotten rid of it," Hogan raised her eyebrows, "I haven't heard him play it since… well, since before Morse died, let alone poor Val. You should hear him sing "The Blaydon Races"…"

"He's gone missing, hasn't he?" Hathaway said, looking across at her.

Hogan glanced away, and Hathaway saw a grieved look pass across her face for one brief moment.

"Yes," she said, at last, swallowing hard before she spoke again; "Come on… the best way to find him is going to be to come up with a suspect."

* * *

Hathaway was at his desk, tie loosened, collar unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up, a cup of coffee slowly going cold in front of him as he stared at the computer screen, scrolling through records and cross-referencing all of the files. Hogan was looking at CCTV footage from the streets and traffic cameras around the location of the latest murder.

"It's definitely Lewis's car," Hogan said, at last, breaking the silence, "Hathaway, come here – can you enhance this image? Let's see if we can see the driver's face…"

Secretly relieved to be able to get away from the computer archive for a while, Hathaway crossed over to Hogan. Rather than using her own office, she was sitting at Lewis's desk, though she had been careful not to disturb it too much.

Calling up the enhancement software, Hathaway focussed on the windscreen of the car, clicking on it and enlarging it. Letting the filters automatically clarify the grainy image layer by layer, they watched as a face slowly seemed to materialise in the dark interior of the vehicle. It was quite blurred, and most of it was hidden by shadow, but they could clearly make out the features.

"Well, it looks like a man," Hogan commented, "bald, which explains the lack of hair and trace… late forties to early fifties, I'd say… looks like a bit of a bruiser, doesn't he? That nose has been broken more than once…"

Hathaway hit the print button, and, just as the printer was spooling the paper through, there was a sharp rap on the door and Innocent came striding in. Closing the door behind her, she leaned on it for a brief moment, looking at each of them in turn.

"Are we making progress?" she asked, quickly.

"Yes ma'am," Hathaway picked up the print-out and handed it over to her, "we've finally got a look at our killer."

Innocent glanced over the picture and handed it to Hogan; "Do we know who he is?"

"Haven't a clue," Hogan replied, "I don't recognise him at all, and I've been in and out of this station since the late eighties… which is a depressing thought. I'll e-mail the image around the station and see if anyone recognises him. He must have worked here, to get access to the archives and those passports."

"And our latest victim?"

"Again, all three of his alleged victims were murdered – raped and strangled, according to the records," said Hogan, "their passports were taken from our evidence logs… look, it's a very specific signature he's got… we don't always keep the passports of the victims, because the next of kin usually want them back…"

"Yes…" Hathaway nodded, in agreement, "Inspector Lewis kept his wife's passport – the killer specifically had to break into his flat for it. We've had no other reports of break-ins to steal passports…"

"Making Monkford's murder a slight anomaly in the series…" Hogan frowned, "Hathaway… our victims… none of their alleged victims had anyone in the way of close friends or family, did they? Nobody who would want to keep their passport, which would explain why we had them in the first place…"

"…In some cases, probably to identify the victim," Hathaway continued, as Innocent stood and listened, watching them both carefully, "our killer seems to be taking revenge for the murder victims on killers who he doesn't feel were punished…"

"…And he's doing it in cases where there is no-one else to avenge their deaths," Hogan finished, "but again, we come back to the matter of Monkford… why kill him? It doesn't fit the subsequent pattern at all…"

"Is it a message?" Innocent asked them, frowning, "Lewis is involved in this somehow – we need to know why. Get that picture circulated and see what you can find out!"

"Yes, ma'am," Hathaway nodded.

Innocent turned to go, but Hogan stopped her; "Jean?"

"Ally?"

"We'll find him."

"You'd better."

* * *

The car bounced over a pothole and Lewis groaned, muffled by the tape over his mouth. He had lost all track of time and had no idea how long he had been in the boot of the car. He was trying desperately not to give in to panic. He wanted the nightmarish journey to end, but he dreaded what might happen when it did.

He had seen the hate in his assailant's eyes as the man had looked at him.

He just wished he could work out why the man looked so bloody familiar…

* * *

Professor Woodman was sitting at her desk. The porter had brought her copies of all of the local papers from the past few days, from which she had clipped all of the articles relating to the murders Inspector Hogan had consulted her about. She had a copy of her handwritten notes from their discussions, and her scrapbooks.

Woodman's scrapbooks were not the family-friendly holiday photographs most people would keep in such volumes. They contained a chronological record of violent crimes stretching back for years, from all over the world. The desktop computer was also switched on, running comprehensive database searches as Woodman poured over the papers, frowning, muttering to herself, occasionally scribbling a note on her pad.

Suddenly, a knock on the door disturbed her concentration, and she permitted herself a small sigh as she set down her fountain pen.

"Come in," she called.

The door inched open and a young blonde man stepped into the room, closing the door carefully behind him. Woodman swept her gaze over him; he was tall, and good looking, with blue eyes and he was obviously deeply worried about something, which did not fit with his otherwise confident appearance. He wore a smart black suit and tie, and Woodman smiled slightly.

"Good afternoon," she said, "can I help you… Sergeant, is it? Don't look so surprised – you have a policeman's aura."

"Detective Sergeant Hathaway, ma'am, Oxford police," he confirmed, showing her his badge, "I'm here at the request of Inspector Hogan. She wanted me to ask – and these are her words, ma'am – whether there was a chance in hell you could be wrong."

Woodman paused, and then gave a low chuckle; "She's a bitch, that woman, but she's bloody good. Yes… I have been reviewing my notes, and I fear that I was very, very wrong. Sergeant, there is a kettle over there. Would you mind making us some tea, and I will gather my notes and explain…"

Hathaway did as he was told, and turned, watching the Professor as she stood up carefully, and hobbled over to an armchair, one of nine arranged in a circle. She was small, only about five feet six, and her restricted mobility gave an impression of an age beyond her actual years. However, Hathaway recognised a sharp mind whenever he encountered one, and he was familiar with a great deal of Woodman's published work.

"In my defence, I will say that my initial impressions were based on scant information," Woodman told him, as he handed her a mug of tea, "thank you… Hogan has a tendency to only give me the information that she thinks is important…"

"Professor," Hathaway cut in, quickly, "I don't want to hurry you, but the matter has become rather urgent…"

"Oh dear," Woodman frowned at him; "There's been another murder, hasn't there?"

"Yes," Hathaway confirmed, "and we believe that the murderer has abducted a police officer… Detective Inspector Lewis. My boss."

"Ah," Woodman tilted her head to one side, "I should have foreseen that."

Hathaway raised one eyebrow at her, and she nodded; "I'll get to the point. I've been doing some research and some comparative psychology to existing cases across the world. I won't waste your time with the salacious details. I told Hogan that your killer was likely to have been a police officer who may have been involved in the cases, killing out of some twisted sense of justice for the crimes he – or more likely his superiors – couldn't solve."

"We agreed," Hathaway replied, fidgeting with his pen, "but our records show several officers involved in all of the cases – some a lot more prominently that Inspector Lewis. And none of them are viable suspects, either due to alibi or ability…"

Woodman nodded; "I would have expected as much… look, you can smoke in here if you want to."

He glanced at her in surprise, and she laughed; "I'm not a psychologist for nothing, you know."

He slipped the packet from his pocket and offered her one. She took it, and he lit it for her before lighting his own.

"I thought smoking wasn't allowed inside the colleges?"

"It's not," Woodman agreed, pulling an ashtray from the shelf beneath the coffee table and placing it between them, "but when you make the college as much money as I do, they tend to overlook your more irritating habits. Now listen… I have been over such materials as I have with a fine tooth-comb, and I will tell you this…"

Hathaway took out his notepad and scribbled while she spoke; "Your killer has an inflated ego, like most of his ilk. However, in reality, he is an underachiever – the fact that he has waited so long to exact what he sees as his just revenge is indicative of a person unwilling to take risks, someone who fears failure. However, he planned meticulously what he was going to do in each case and how the killings would be carried out, as soon as the opportunity presented itself. However, he retains elements of the disorganised – he plans the murder, but he makes no effort to hide the bodies… He probably only held down a menial job; he'd be the sort of man who never put himself forward, the sort you might walk past every day and not notice…"

She paused, taking a drag on her cigarette, and glanced across at him.

"Your killer has festered this grudge for years," she told him, "he has watched while people he considers his inferiors are promoted above him, and then fail to give justice to the victims of violent murder, a justice that he decided to meat out himself. He had access to your evidence logs, either personally or via a friend, and, once the investigation was closed, he took the victim's passports – I would suggest as mementos of each case where nobody cared for the victim. I noticed in each case they had no real next of kin… your killer probably doesn't either. He empathised with them because they had no-one to care for them in the same way nobody cared about him."

Hathaway paused in his note-taking to take his cigarette from his mouth, leaning forward to tap ash into the tray.

"Why target Inspector Lewis?" he asked.

"I think he may have originally had some respect for the Inspector," Woodman replied, her tone introspective, "it seems to me that your killer may have known the Inspector, many years ago, and had some reason to like him; it may even have been a one-off kindness the Inspector showed to him, something that you or I might take for granted. However, Inspector Lewis, like his peers, simply wasn't good enough at catching the people who killed the unloved, the people like him. And when Inspector Lewis seemed content to allow the man responsible for the death of his wife to walk free from jail, well, that was the ultimate betrayal as far as your killer was concerned. Simon Monkford died because your killer was showing Inspector Lewis what he should have done, in his mind."

Hathaway was silent as he worked through the implications, jotting down notes.

"How do we find him? Why and where would he have taken Inspector Lewis?"

Woodman glanced across at him; "You are right to be worried, Sergeant. The killer is finally taking his revenge, for himself and for all of the unloved victims of crime whose killers went unpunished. But I suspect that there is more. There will be one unloved person in particular, most likely someone – perhaps the only person – who was ever close to the killer, or to whom the killer felt close. I would suspect Inspector Lewis was involved, however minimally, in the investigation of that person's death. I would go so far as to suggest that he may not even remember the case. However, our killer clearly does, and his respect for the Inspector at the time would have left him feeling crushed when the perpetrator went unpunished."

"So what is his next move?"

"He will kill the perpetrator," Hogan replied, matter-of-factly, "he will avenge the death of the one person he felt close to, and then he will likely confess himself to the Inspector. He will keep him alive to see his final act of vengeance."

There was a long pause as Woodman finished her smoke. Hathaway gazed at her.

"Tell me the rest, Professor."

"You're sharp, lad, I'll give you that," she said, with a tight smile, "my theory is that when your killer has completed his mission, he will have nothing left to accomplish. He will, in all likelihood, kill himself… and, I suspect, he will try to take Inspector Lewis with him."


	8. Chapter 8

Hathaway drove recklessly fast on his way back to the station, his hands tight enough to whiten his knuckles as he gripped the steering wheel, narrowly avoiding three collisions and an angry pedestrian on the journey. His car squealed into the car park as he parked it quickly. Running into the station, he found that the whole place was in uproar. Innocent had called in every off-duty officer and pulled every available resource to dedicate the force to a massive manhunt.

Weaving through the chaos, Hathaway found Hogan standing in the middle of the incident room, coat on; sleeves rolled up, shouting orders over the hubbub.

"Sir," Hathaway came up behind her, and was nearly knocked to his knees by her coat when she spun around, "I've spoken to Professor Woodman…"

He provided her with an edited highlights version, and Hogan listened carefully, frowning deeply.

"Damn the woman," she said, at last, "serves me right – I should have given her the whole bloody file. Right…"

Hathaway winced and stepped back as she took a deep breath and bellowed; "Michaels!"

She stood with her hands on her hips for a long moment; Hathaway heard a door slam and running footsteps down the hall outside.

"Sir?" Hogan's long-suffering Sergeant, Dennis Michaels, appeared at the doorway, a wretched expression on his face.

"Re-run all of those personnel searches," Hogan ordered, "but this time, include everyone – all members of staff – from the Chief Super right down to the canteen staff and the cleaners, got it? Find me someone who worked here in the late eighties to early nineties, who had someone close to them who was killed during that time. You know what you're looking for."

"Yes, sir!" Michaels turned and bolted, and Hathaway felt a flash of sympathy for the poor man, not for the first time thinking that the Vice team had been a strange career choice for such a by-the-book introvert. He couldn't have been stuck with a worse Inspector for defying the rules and ignoring procedure.

Hathaway let out a long, slow breath. His fingers itched to take a cigarette from his pocket, just so he had something to do. Hogan must have felt the same as she began patting her own pockets. She pulled a cigarette from her pocket and put it between her lips, before offering the packet to him. Hathaway took one and followed at her silent beckon. They went out into the corridor and through to the back of the station, stepping to the area outside where the smokers could indulge their habit. Hogan lit up, and then lit Hathaway's for him as well.

"We've got to find this bastard, James," she said, snapping the lighter shut and dropping it back into a pocket inside her coat, "if only so's I can nail his head to my wall…"

Hathaway was about to reply when the back door opened and Innocent stuck her head out.

"I thought I might find you two addicts out here," she commented, "any news?"

"Professor Woodman re-profiled our killer," Hathaway said, quickly, unable to keep the tension out of his voice, "she thinks he's got one more victim – one personal to him – and then he's going to kill himself, and…"

He broke off, blinked rapidly, and took a deep drag on his cigarette, turning away.

"Oh God," Innocent breathed, "Ally, I think you'd better give me one of those…"

"After the length of time it took you to quit? You'd never forgive me," Hogan replied, shaking her head, "Christ, Jean – I've got every available man and woman sifting the files and there's an APB out on Robbie's car, we're taking calls from every nut-job, crackpot and nosy neighbour in the city… something's got to give, and soon…"

"We still don't even have an ID on the bastard," Hathaway said, "Sorry, ma'am…"

"I've had a call from Dr. Hobson," Innocent told them, "Nothing new to add from the latest victim to the Monkford, Cox and Houghton cases. If we're going to catch this guy, it's going to be the old-fashioned way…"

"Great," Hogan said, bitterly, inhaling deeply and blowing smoke through her nose; "I'll go saddle up my horse and get my lynching rope, shall I?"

"Sir!" there was an anxious shout from within the building, "Ma'am! Sir!"

"Out here, Michaels!" Hogan bellowed, tossing her cigarette butt on the floor and crushing it beneath her boot, despite the pointed look from Innocent.

"Sir," he said, breathlessly, "we've got an ID on the photo!"

"My office," Innocent snapped, "Now!"

* * *

"His name is Paul Clarke," Michaels reported, quickly, as they assembled in Innocent's office, "He worked here as a cleaner and odd-jobs man from 1984 to 1998. In 1997, his sister was killed by a driver who was as high as a kite on amphetamines. Inspector Lewis arrested him, but the case was taken over by Vice Squad, who made a bargain with the driver. He rolled out a list of dealers in exchange for the charges being reduced. He got off with two years minimum security and a lifetime driving ban."

"I was on secondment to Newcastle at the time," Hogan growled, "that never happened on my bloody watch, I'll tell you."

"It would have been a good result at the time, Ally," Innocent replied, firmly, "who was the driver?"

"Craig Burton," Michaels responded, referring to his file, "I've got his address right here…"

He held out a sheet to Innocent, but Hogan snatched it from him.

"Stay here and co-ordinate, Den," she told him, "James, you're with me. Let's go."

"Hogan! Behave yourself, okay?" Innocent shouted after her, as the Inspector swept out.

"I will, Jean!"

Innocent sank back into her chair, and gave Michaels a long-suffering look; "One day, she might condescend to show me a bit of respect."

"Yes ma'am," Michaels replied, meekly, "I'll just, um…"

"You're dismissed, Michaels."

"Thank you, ma'am!"

* * *

The car finally stopped, and Lewis felt his heart racing as the door opened and slammed shut again. However, footsteps walked away from the car, and he was left in silence. Had his abductor simply abandoned him somewhere?

With renewed energy, ignoring his various aches and pains, Lewis struggled to free his hands, but the more he pulled on the tape the more it bit into his wrists. He tried kicking the boot lid, but there was virtually no room to move. Kicking the inside of the car boot, he tried to attract attention, but nobody came.

Eventually, pain and exhaustion won out, and he slumped onto his side, closing his eyes in hopeless frustration. Was this what his abductor had in mind? To abandon the car somewhere? Would someone find him before he died of dehydration? How long would he have to stay in this dark, cramped, metal tomb?

An eternity passed, which was punctuated by alternating periods of panic, efforts to free himself, and involuntarily unconsciousness. It was hard to breathe with the gag on, and it was getting ever more oppressive and stuffy in the boot. Eventually, he heard approaching footsteps, and he froze, bracing himself. With a click, the boot opened, and Lewis's hopes sank when he recognised his assailant.

The man sat down on the edge of the boot. Lewis could see nothing to tell him where they were, as he gazed up at his captor and the sky above him.

"It's done," the man said, quietly.

Lewis, still gagged, could only stare at him. The man was wearing a neoprene wetsuit, a diver's suit, and Lewis realised that this explained the complete lack of fibres and trace evidence at the crime scenes. The killer hadn't worn a scene suit, but he had gone for a tough material that would not tear or shed fibres.

"You don't remember me, do you?" the man looked down at Lewis in contempt, and the Inspector shrugged helplessly, "No, your lot never do. The odd-job man in the brown coat, well, that could be anyone, right? Couldn't have been the same guy for fourteen years, because that's just tragic… and when his sister dies, well, nobody cares, do they? Because her killer handed over a few other scumbags, and because your arrest rates go up, he gets away with murder…"

The man glanced over his shoulder. Lewis could see the fresh bloodstains on the front of the wetsuit, shining wetly on the black material.

"The bastard's dead," the man said, distantly, "our little Alice can rest in peace…"

He looked back at Lewis; "You know, you were one of the few I respected. You looked out for the underdog, I thought. Made me a cup of tea once, and told me I was doing a grand job… I thought you were different. And then I watched as you failed, just like the rest of them, letting killers go because you were too stupid and too uncaring to catch them."

Lewis tried to make a noise of protest, but the man held up his fist in warning.

"You let them release our Alice's killer," he hissed, "two years, that was all. Well, now he's paid the price. I've been doing your job for you, Inspector. Even when it came to your own wife – you didn't care enough, so I had to get justice for her."

Anger made Lewis strong enough to try to lunge at the man, but with his wrists still bound, a back-handed slap knocked him back into the boot of the car with very little effort.

"My mission is finally over," the man sighed, as if relieved, "I got them justice… time to go, Inspector. It's time we each paid the price of our sins."

The man got up, slammed the boot shut, and Lewis, curled up in the darkness, felt totally hopeless and alone.

* * *

Hogan ran through the corridors, Hathaway on her heels, as people leapt to get out of their way. Those too slow to move found themselves being bowled to one side as the two of them charged through.

"I'll drive," Hogan said, quickly, as they emerged outside, heading towards her car; a big black-and-silver Mitsubishi Shogun.

Hathaway did not protest, as he yanked the door open and swung himself up into the passenger seat. Hogan pulled out the siren light and attached it to the roof, and, not bothering to manoeuvre out of the car park, she gunned the engine and drove over the flowerbed, across the pavement, and out onto the main road. Hathaway grimly held on to the door as Hogan switched the sirens on with one hand, steering with the other, as she then tossed him the sheet of paper with the address.

"Navigate," she told him quickly, as the massive car careened around a slow-moving people carrier.

Hathaway called directions as Hogan tore through the streets, out into a residential area. She switched off the audible siren but left the lights flashing, as they headed further out and into Blackbird Leys, where Craig Burton, Paul Clarke's next intended victim, had his last registered address.

However, as she was turning left into the street, another vehicle came flying out of the road, making a left turn with a squeal of tyres. Hogan swore and yanked on the steering wheel, narrowly avoiding a head-on collision. The Mitsubishi mounted the pavement, crashing into the garden wall of the house on the corner.

"That was Inspector Lewis's car!" Hathaway exclaimed.

Hogan, wrestling with the gears, slammed the Shogun into reverse, hauled it around, and stamped on the accelerator, pursuing the speeding Vauxhall.

"That's going to be expensive to fix," she growled, patting the dashboard, "damn, but I love this car…"

Hathaway snatched up his phone and dialled into the switchboard.

"This is Sergeant Hathaway," he reported, as calmly as he could, holding the phone with one hand and clinging to the car door with the other, "send an emergency response team to the following address…" he read out Craig Burton's address, knowing that it was already too late, "any available units in the area of the football stadium are to converge on the Grenoble Road, suspect heading east towards the A4074 roundabout…"

Hogan hissed as the Vauxhall narrowly missed a biker, as she slammed on the screaming siren again, putting her foot down.

"It's a good job I've had the engine upgraded," she said, though gritted teeth, "God, Woodman was right – this guy's got a death wish!"

"I can only see one person in the car," Hathaway commented, a note of worry creeping into his voice.

"Shit – he's taking the side road," Hogan made a tight turn off the roundabout, leaving chaos in the traffic behind them, "where the hell is he going?"

Off the main roads, the Mitsubishi was able to gain on the Vauxhall slightly, as it sped onwards.

"We've got the bastard," Hogan said, a note of grim triumph in her voice, "I know this road – it's a dead end. Just a few houses and a pub…"

Suddenly, however, the Vauxhall veered right into a small car park, next to a grassy picnic area. Hogan cursed, hauling the Shogun around tightly – Hathaway experienced an odd sensation as the wheels on the right lifted slightly. Fortunately, the vehicle did not roll over, righting itself with a heavy thump as Hogan slammed it back into gear. The Vauxhall, with a scream of protesting tyres, made a sharp left turn around a hedge, and, as Hogan followed, both she and Hathaway swore in unison – all that lay beyond the hedge was the Oxford canal, with no barriers or fences to speak of.

The Vauxhall accelerated forwards, even as Hogan slammed on the breaks and yanked on the steering wheel. The Vauxhall was airborne for a few second before going bonnet-first into the water, even as Hogan's Mitsubishi collided very solidly with a sickening crunch into a canal-side tree.

* * *

Hope flared in Lewis when he heard the very familiar sound of the police siren, strong enough to make him redouble his efforts to free his hands. His broken finger throbbed horribly but he continued to pull, sweat beading on his face with the pain and effort.

The car – his own car – slewed around a tight bend, throwing Lewis into the back of the rear seats, and then sideways, connecting solidly with the interior of the boot. Shaking it off, refusing to give up, Lewis continued to fight with the restraints.

However, a particularly violent impact elicited a wordless, muffled cry of pain as he was jolted roughly, the breath choking from his lungs as pain exploded through his damaged ribs. The car seemed to accelerate, bouncing horribly over what could only be an off-road course. Then, Lewis felt an odd sensation of weightlessness for a brief moment, before another impact brought his head into a very solid collision with the inside of the boot.

Groggily, he tried to raise his head, but fell back, stunned. The car engine had stopped, but it felt like they were still moving. There was no noise at all, and Lewis wondered if the driver had finally crashed. His head reeling and feeling sick to his stomach, Lewis could feel himself shaking, and realised that he was cold all over. And wet. Why was he wet?

It was only then that he realised that the car was rapidly filling with water. Taking quick, panicked gasps of air through his nose, Lewis kept his head above the water for as long as he could, but when his forehead hit the parcel-shelf, he knew it was over.

The water level rose, and he was completely submerged.

* * *

_**A/N**: A short chapter with 2 cliff-hangers... evil or what? I hope you're enjoying it so far... final chapter to follow soon!_


	9. Chapter 9

Hathaway stirred, groaned, and raised his trembling hands to his face. The windscreen had shattered under the impact with the tree, and a shard of glass had cut deeply into his forehead. Blood was running into his eye, and he wiped it away with a shaking hand. He could hear the ticking noise of cooling metal, and, as he raised his eyes, he found himself staring at the extremely solid tree trunk they had hit.

Taking a deep breath, he glanced around. Hogan was slumped over the steering wheel, unmoving, but he could see that she was breathing. Then, his memory returned with a clarity that hit him like a bucket of ice-cold water, and he flung open the passenger door, running towards the canal. Without a moment's hesitation, he flung himself head-first, arms outstretched, into the water, beside the rapidly-sinking Vauxhall. He clawed at the front passenger door, and opened it. The water was filthy, obscuring the visibility, but he could only make out one figure in the front seat, curled over, unmoving. Dead eyes stared back at him through the murky water, and Hathaway realised that he was face-to-face with their now deceased killer.

That was not his primary concern. Kicking himself back up to the surface, he took another lungful of air and dived again, this time going to the back of the car. He had heard sirens howling in the distance as the response cars fought to catch up with them.

Under the water, Hathaway scrabbled awkwardly at the boot catch, and eventually managed to force it open. Despite the poor visibility, he made out a very familiar figure curled up in the boot, and Hathaway wasted no time. Grabbing the other man, Hathaway clawed his way back up, breaking through the surface of the water, and grabbing the side of the canal.

Unable to pull himself out, and unwilling to let go, Hathaway held on to the bank with one hand and hung on to Lewis with the other, as he heard car tyres crunch on the gravel of the car park, and the car doors slammed as voices rose.

"Sir! Over here!"

"Get off me, you bloody fool! Over there – get them out of there!"

There were running footsteps, and Hathaway felt a strong pair of hands lock around his wrists, even as someone else was reaching down, pulling Lewis free of the water. Hathaway was hauled out next, and he saw Hogan staggering towards him, limping badly, as she dropped heavily to the ground beside Lewis.

Hathaway pulled himself free of his rescuer, snapping; "Get a bloody ambulance, quick!"

"Shit," Hogan gasped, as she ripped the duct tape gag from Lewis's mouth, "I don't think he's breathing…"

She took a deep breath, pinched Lewis's nose, and, tilting his head back, blew into his mouth. She repeated the action twice more before the Inspector choked, coughing up the filthy canal water he had inadvertently inhaled. Hogan pulled him over onto his side, and patted his back firmly.

"Good lad," she said, encouragingly, "that's it…"

Coughing, Lewis raised his head, giving them both a bleary eyed look, and then promptly passed out. Hathaway heaved a relieved sigh, slumping to the ground next to his boss, even as Hogan rolled over onto her back with a pained groan. Soaking wet, and freezing cold, and aching all over, Hathaway could only think of one thing to say.

"Sir? Did you say there was a pub near here…?"

* * *

A few hours later, Hathaway was finally allowed to leave the care of the doctors, with a small gauze pad taped over the wound above his left eye, and antibiotics to counter the effects of anything nasty in the canal water he had been in. He was battered and bruised from the car crash, and still felt chilled to the bone. The doctors had treated his injuries and a nurse had done her best to dry his suit for him, but he knew it was probably another write-off; the whole thing was stained mud-brown, and reeked of canal water.

He got some directions from the ward sister, and then had to get directions from three other nurses, a porter and a cleaner before he found a waiting area and recognised a very familiar figure, slumped in a chair and leaning against the wall. Hathaway approached quietly, thinking her to be asleep, but as he came nearer, Hogan opened her eyes, and raised her hand in greeting.

"With all due respect, sir, what are you doing sitting here?"

"It's a waiting area, Hathaway. I'm waiting."

Hathaway quirked a quick smile, as Hogan straightened up slightly in her chair, wrapping her coat around herself and folding her arms. Hathaway observed a large bruise to her temple and a split lip, no doubt from the crash. He also saw a crutch propped up against the wall, and saw how she sat with her left leg straight out in front of her.

"I tore the cartilage in my knee," she explained, catching his look and gesturing to her leg, "it was like I was trying to put my foot through the floor of my car, I stamped on the breaks that hard, and then there was the sudden impact when we hit that bloody tree…"

She flinched at the memory, let out a shaky breath, glanced up at him, and patted the chair beside her, indicating for him to sit down. He did so with a grimace – his chest and shoulder were bruised from the seatbelt impact, and he felt cold and stiff. He almost leapt to his feet again when the Chief Superintendent appeared from around the corner.

"Stay where you are, Hathaway," she told him, sternly, as he went to rise, "how are the bruises?"

"...Colourful, ma'am."

"If you get lucky, Jean, he might show you later…"

"Oh, that's just inappropriate, even for you," Innocent admonished Hogan, even as she crossed to the vending machine, and brought each of them a hot drink, "here. You look like you need this."

"What I need is something with a frothy head, a bitter aftertaste and around six percent volume," Hogan replied, wearily, "thanks, though…"

"Thank you, ma'am," Hathaway accepted his, and wrapped his hands around the polystyrene cup, savouring the warmth.

Innocent sat down on a chair against the wall, so that she was at a ninety-degree angle to Hogan, who was slumped back in her chair again, long leather coat pulled around her like a blanket. Innocent reached out, and put her hand on the other woman's shoulder.

"I'm really sorry about your car," she said, sincerely.

Hogan shrugged, in an effort at nonchalance, casting her gaze down at the floor; "I'll get another… bloody insurance premium will go through the roof, though… come on, break the really bad news; what did you find at Craig Burton's house?"

"Exactly what we expected to," Innocent replied, dourly; "I sent a team over to Paul Clarke's last known address…"

Innocent was interrupted by the arrival of a nurse, who smiled at them politely and handed Hogan a small paper bag.

"Your painkillers, miss," the nurse told her, kindly.

"And my friend?" Hogan asked, quietly.

"You can see him whenever you want to," the nurse nodded, "he is resting at the moment, so just one at a time, please… down this corridor, turn left, second door on your right. We'll keep him in tonight for observation, but the doctors have said that he should be able go home tomorrow morning, miss."

"Thank you," Hogan nodded, leaned back, and secreted the paper bag into one of her many pockets.

The nurse left, and there was a moment of silence. Hogan and Hathaway both turned to look at Innocent, who shrugged, meeting Hogan's gaze evenly. Hogan nodded, as if understanding some non-verbal communication, and then angled a look across at Hathaway.

"I think I'm stuck in this chair," she said, with a smile, "Jean can keep me company… go on."

"Thank you, sir… and ma'am," Hathaway murmured.

He climbed to his feet, trying not to betray how much the action hurt, and walked slowly down the corridor. His shirt was stained brown from the canal water, torn and bloodied in several places from shards of windscreen glass, and his once-black suit was a muddy shade of greyish-brown. His tie was gone; he'd already thrown it away. He drew several curious looks from passers-by, but he ignored them, as he approached the room indicated by the nurse.

* * *

Pausing on the outside of the room, Hathaway took a deep breath and stepped inside. Lewis was propped almost upright in the bed, eyes closed. Hathaway closed the door as quietly as he could, moving forwards to stand beside the bed. There was a fresh white bandage around Lewis's head, and Hathaway could see fresh bruises to his face and hands in addition to the fading ones from several days previously. Hathaway could also see, from the hand that rested above the sheets, that the Inspector's left-hand fingers had been strapped together again, and there was a pressure bandage around the wrist and hand as well.

As if aware of the scrutiny, Lewis stirred slightly, and then forced his eyes open. Hathaway waited patiently as Lewis blinked at him a few times, obviously trying to get him into focus.

"Hello, sir," he said, by way of greeting, after a moment's pause.

"Hey," Lewis acknowledged him, his voice sounding more than a little bit drugged, "what in God's name happened to you?"

"I'll tell you all about it over the first of several pints you're going to buy me," Hathaway replied, with a tight smile, "how are you feeling?"

"Well, they've said I can go home tomorrow," using his right hand only, Lewis levered himself a little more upright on the bed, wincing as he did so, "I don't… remember what happened… Jim, tell me...?"

Exhausted, he leaned back against the pillows, and Hathaway swallowed, hard, as the memory of the last few hours rose unbidden in his mind. He saw Lewis giving him a sleepy, concerned look.

"Probably best that you just rest for now," Hathaway said, evasively, "I'll… I'll come and pick you up in the morning, sir."

"Aye," Lewis was already fighting to keep his eyes open, "thanks, Jim…"

"You're welcome, sir," Hathaway murmured, but Lewis was already asleep.

Knowing that his boss would likely not appreciate it, Hathaway nonetheless bowed his head and murmured a prayer of healing under his breath, before he left the room.

* * *

Returning to the waiting area, Hathaway found Hogan and Innocent chuckling quietly over some private joke. Hogan saw him approach, and turned to look at him.

"How is he?" she asked, with genuine concern.

"He's asleep at the moment," Hathaway reported, standing before them, "he doesn't remember what happened... he doesn't seem quite with it, yet."

"That's probably for the best, for now," Hogan commented, "come on, Jean – how about giving the cripple and the hero a lift back to the crime scene? My poor car is probably permanently embedded in that tree, and we both came here in the ambulances…"

"Shouldn't I be taking you home?"

A dark look crossed Hogan's face; "I just… I just want to see him, okay?"

"Fine," Innocent nodded, "Hathaway – I can drop you off…?"

"I'd like to come back with you, ma'am," Hathaway replied.

He had no idea why, but he wanted to see the killer's face again. not obscured by dark, dirty water – he wanted to clearly see the man who had caused so much pain, misery and devastation in such a short space of time. Otherwise, that shadowy face and staring eyes would haunt his nightmares for weeks to come.

"Fine. Follow me."

Innocent stood and swept off down the corridor. Hogan sighed, and Hathaway wordlessly extended his hand. With an amused look and a raised eyebrow, Hogan picked up the crutch, took his hand, and he pulled her into a standing position, allowing her to balance against him until she managed to lean on the crutch.

"Christ," she said, with a theatrical groan, "this is going to slow me down… we'll just prop each other up, shall we, Jim?"

"Yes, sir," he agreed, allowing her to slip her free hand through his arm, limping down the corridor; "you know, sir, you and Inspector Lewis are the only people in the world aside from my late Grandfather who call me Jim?"

Hogan laughed; "Are you calling us old? On second thoughts... don't answer that."

Hathaway managed a small smile, as they slowly made their way down the corridor, after Innocent.

* * *

Less than an hour later, Hogan was once again leaning on Hathaway's shoulder as they stood on the tow-path of the canal. A crane towered over them from the car park, as divers fastened strong chains around the Vauxhall. A recovery truck stood nearby, waiting to take the car to the forensics laboratory for tests. Hogan's Mitsubishi was still embedded in the tree behind them.

Paul Clarke's body had already been pulled out of the car, and Dr Hobson was supervising the removal of the corpse. When she saw Hogan and Hathaway, she quickly crossed over to them.

"Good grief," she said, a horrified look on her face, "look at you two…"

"Yeah," Hogan gave a significant look over her shoulder at the wreckage of the car behind her, "we're fine, really."

"Really," Hathaway echoed, unconvincingly, staring at the black body bag on the stretcher behind Hobson.

She followed his gaze, and then said; "Do you want to see him?"

Hathaway nodded, silently. He wanted closure. Hobson flagged down the pathology assistants as they pushed the trolley passed them, and opened the bag. Hathaway stared at the face for a long moment, and felt Hogan's hand on his shoulder, leaning on him for support.

"All right," she said, at last, "get rid of the bastard."

"Take him," Hobson confirmed, nodding to her assistants, "I'll be along shortly."

She turned back to the other two, peeling off her latex gloves as she eyed their bruises and tired expressions.

"How's Robbie?" she asked, at last.

"He's…" Hathaway hesitated; he knew Hobson was close to Lewis, but he had no wish to lie to the pathologist, "He'll be released from hospital in the morning… at the moment, he doesn't remember what happened…"

He looked across at the canal as a shout went up and the crane roared to life. The chains tensed, and, with a groan of protesting metal, the Vauxhall slowly emerged from the water. Hathaway heard Hogan growl something unsavoury under her breath about the boaters, walkers and other passers-by who had stopped to take pictures, clapping, pointing and laughing as the car slowly emerged from the water.

Canal water poured out of the vehicle as it was gradually winched free, and the assembled crowd gave a smattering of cheers and applause as it finally broke free, and was placed on the recovery vehicle. It was then that Innocent rejoined them, having been getting updates from the on-scene officers.

"Come on, you two," she told them, "that's enough for today – let's get you both home."

Hogan nodded, silently, and, releasing Hathaway's shoulder, she limped over to the wreck of her car. Hathaway glanced away as she patted it sadly, and Innocent went over to console her. He felt a comforting hand on his arm, and found Hobson looking up at him with a smile.

"You'll be fine," she told him, encouragingly, "you all will – including Lewis. You'll see."

He nodded, more out obedience than anything. Casting one last look at the devastation around him, he turned, and headed back to Innocent's car.

* * *

Lewis was indeed released the next morning, and, as promised, Hathaway had been there to pick him up. Hathaway felt better for having had a long, hot shower, and night's sleep and clean clothes. However, his sleep had been haunted by nightmares, though he schooled his face into an a cheerful greeting when he met Lewis at the hospital entrance.

"Morning, sir," he greeted him, "how are you feeling?"

"Morning, Jim," Lewis replied, a little distantly.

Hathaway noted the slightly dazed expression on his face and glassy look in his eyes, recognising immediately the side-effects of some pretty powerful painkillers. Lewis was wearing clothing borrowed from the hospital – ill fitting jeans and a tee-shirt that were all too big for him. His own clothes from the previous day had been too ruined to be wearable.

As such, Hathaway simply opened the passenger door, and allowed Lewis to get in, a little awkwardly. There were fresh bruises on his face and he moved with a painful, slow stiffness that Hathaway had recognised in himself and Inspector Hogan following their car crash.

In virtual silence, he drove Lewis back to his house. He opened the door, and Lewis walked inside slowly, glancing around warily, as if he was expecting an attacker to leap out at him. Hathaway couldn't blame him, and wished he'd mentioned something in advance – Lewis leapt about three feet in the air when Hogan limped out of the kitchen, coffee mug in hand.

"Sorry," she said, "I let myself in. There was a bit of tidying up to do, and the lock-smith's coming around shortly. Oh, and I hope you're better at carpentry than I am."

She gestured to the storage cupboard. Everything had been replaced, and the splinters removed from the carpet, but the remains of the broken door were a sorry sight. Lewis stared at it, frowning in confusion. Then, realisation dawned, and he held up a hand, pointing at Hathaway.

"You," the Inspector said, "I saw him – he put you…"

"Yeah," Hathaway nodded, and swallowed, "don't remind me…"

Hogan held out a mug of coffee for each of them.

"Actually," she said, "I think it's about time we brought each other up to speed on what happened. I want to close this case."

Reluctantly, Hathaway accepted the coffee, and took a seat. Haltingly, Lewis began to tell them what he could remember…

* * *

Hathaway was surprised, but pleased, when DCS Innocent had given himself, Lewis and Hogan two weeks' paid leave, to be taken immediately. As such, nearly two weeks later, he found himself outside a very familiar door one evening, dressed in casual jeans and a sweater, carrying a guitar case and a carrier bag. He rang the bell, and the door opened after just a few moments.

"Evening, sir," he said, cheerfully.

"Oh, hallo, Jim," Lewis pushed the door open and stood back, "Come on in…"

Hathaway followed him inside, closed the door behind him, and went through to the living room, where he propped the guitar case up against the kitchen breakfast bar, and deposited a carrier bag on the worktop.

"All right, Hathaway?" Hogan raised a bottle of beer in greeting, from where she was sitting in an armchair, "You here to serenade us or something?"

"I... I didn't want to leave it in the car," Hathaway replied, not meeting her mischievous gaze.

"Oh, leave the poor boy alone, you," Laura Hobson chided her, from the other armchair, "anyway; now that we're all here, I believe I was promised food?"

Lewis came out of the kitchen and handed Hathaway a beer bottle, which he accepted with a mumble of thanks, as Lewis sat down on the settee. The bruises had faded, and the bandages were gone from his head and hand, but he still looked pale and haunted. Hogan, still reliant on the crutch, had her leg propped up on the coffee table, but was in good spirits as she pulled out her phone.

"What's it going to be this time?" she asked, "Pizza, Chinese, Indian, Greek…?"

"None of the above," Hathaway replied, walking back to the kitchen and reaching for the carrier bag, "I was thinking of cooking, if you don't mind?"

"You can cook?" Lewis looked surprised.

"We all have our hidden talents, sir," Hathaway replied, enigmatically, with a small smile, "lasagne?"

"Bless you," Hogan snickered.

Hathaway gave her a withering look, as he began to explore the cupboards in Lewis's kitchen; "Do you own a wok?"

"No."

"Casserole dish?"

"Probably not."

Hathaway sighed, and set to work as best he could. Lewis settled back in the settee, pouring his beer into a pint glass and setting the empty bottle down on the floor.

"Cheers," Hogan toasted him, and drank, "Mm, good beer. Oh, did I tell you? I've ordered my new transport…"

"I dread to think," Hobson gave a mock-groan, "nothing too subtle, I hope?"

"Import," she replied, with a grin, "and I've downsized. A Harley Davidson heritage softail classic in black and red. Gorgeous."

"Aye, if you say so," Lewis remarked, swirling the beer in his glass, "I haven't decided what to replace the Vauxhall with yet…"

"Ooh, I could just see you on a bike, Lewis," Hobson teased him, with a grin.

He gave a snort of derision, as the others laughed. They passed their time in idle chatter until Hathaway served up a fresh lasagne, with garlic bread, salad and various sides. Lewis took a chilled bottle of chardonnay from the fridge, and poured them each a glass. He picked up his glass.

"A toast," Hobson suggested, "to… to hidden talents!"

"To hidden talents!"

They toasted, ate, drank, and laughed a lot, before clearing the dishes and retiring back to the lounge area. Hathaway left Hogan telling Hobson a rather off-colour story as he crossed to the breakfast bar, and picked up the guitar case, placing it on the dining room table. Lewis saw him, and got up to have a look.

"I just wanted to apologise, sir," Hathaway murmured, as he placed a hand on the case carefully.

"What for?" Lewis frowned, "It was you dragged me out of the boot of that car… if you hadn't, well…"

"I broke it, sir," Hathaway interrupted, in a low voice, "when I broke the, um, the cupboard door…"

He undid the clasp on the case, and heard Lewis's sharp intake of breath when he revealed the guitar inside. Not only had the damaged arm and fret been repaired, but Hathaway had replaced the strings and polished all of the woodwork. Lewis touched it, almost reverently.

"Go on, sir, you know you want to."

"It's been a while," Lewis replied, hesitantly, "years... and me left hand is still a bit stiff…"

Hathaway smiled to himself as Lewis picked up the guitar, put his foot on the dining chair, and balanced the instrument on his knee, checking the tuning. Tightening up a few of the strings, he tuned it by ear, as Hogan and Hobson turned to watch in amusement. Lewis played through a few chords, a slightly distant look on his face, as Hathaway, with his musical ear, nodded approvingly. Pausing to flex the sore fingers of his left hands, Lewis sighed and coloured slightly in embarrassment as Hogan and Hobson gave him a round of applause.

"Oh, give over," he told them, trying not to sound amused.

"Not until you play something properly," Hogan grinned, "you know what I want."

"Tart," Hobson shot back, quickly, with a grin.

"I dread to think," Hathaway dead-panned.

"Witch," Hogan countered Hobson's mock-insult playfully, "As for you, you dirty boy; get your mind out of the gutter and fetch me another beer."

"Yes… _ma'am_."

"Ooh, you're cruising…"

Lewis smiled, sighed again, and took the guitar over to the couch. He glanced across at Hathaway as they both sat down; "You can stop grinning… this is your fault, so it's your turn next."

Leaning back in the chair, as Lewis strummed the first few chords, Hathaway was pleased to see that the haunted, pained expressions on all of their faces had faded, as he tried to decide what he could possibly play next to beat listening to his boss rendering the anthem of the North East, which was being sung well, in an emphasised Geordie accent;

"_Oh! me lads, ye shud a' seen us gannin; passin' the folks upon the road just as they were stannin'. An' all the lads and lasses there, an' all wi' smiling faces; gannin' alang the Scotswood Road, to see the Blaydon Races_…"

* * *

Finis

* * *

_**A/N**_**: **_As an interesting side note, Kevin Whately used to play guitar and made a living as a folk singer before becoming an actor. He recently said in a Radio 2 interview that he hasn't played for about 20 years, but still has a guitar tucked away in a cupboard somewhere - it amused me to think that Lewis might have one too, despite his joking with Hathaway about guitars having lids etc. in "Your Sudden Death Question"! Anyone unfamiliar with the song "Blaydon Races" just needs to know that it's the anthem of the Newcastle FC fans, and if you want to hear Kevin Whately, Jimmy Nail and Tim Healey sing an absolutely amazing version of it, go to YouTube and run a search for "Auf Wiedersein Tribute Robson" to see the video, recorded in memory of Sir Bobby Robson. It really is brilliant, and it's what prompted the rather fluffy ending and the references to the guitar, because even an old battleaxe like me appreciates the odd bit of fluff... just don't tell anyone._

_Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the fic! Lewis gets a much easier ride in my current work in progress, I promise... _

_Until then... thanks for reading._

_RP._


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